THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


IN  MEMORY  OF 
MRS.  VIRGINIA  B.  SPORER 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 


'CHARMIAN,  WHAT'S  ALL  THIS  ABOUT  AN  EXTRAORDINARY  CORNISH 
GENIUS?     D'YOU  LIKE  HIM  SO  MUCH  ?  "—Page  76 


THE 

WAY  OF  AMBITION 


BY 


ROBERT  HICHENS 

Author  of  "  The  Garden  of  Allah,"  "  The  Fruitful  Vine," 

"  The  Woman  with  the  Fan,"  "  Tongues  of 

Conscience,"  "Felix,"  etc. 


WITH  A  FRONTISPIECE  IN  COLOR 
AND  FOUR   ILLUSTRATIONS   IN  BLACK-AND-WHITE  BY 

J.  H.  GARDNER  SOPER 


NEW  YORK 

FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1913,  by 
ROBERT  HICHENS 


Copyright,  1912,  1913,  by 
THE  BUTTERICK  PUBLISHING  Co. 


August,  1913 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

'Charmian,  what's  all  this   about  an  extraordinary 
Cornish  genius?   D'you  like  him  so  much?'  "  .  Frontispiece 


FACING 
PAGE 


"  'This  is  the  last  thing  I've  done'  " 40 

"  'Of   course   we   wives   of   composers  are  apt  to   be 

prejudiced' " 242 

"  At  her  feet  the  crouching  Arabs  never  stirred"      .      .  258 

"  'Claudie,  I  want  you  to  win,  I  want  you  to  win! '  "   .  378 


2041660 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 


CHAPTER  I 

"T  \  TE  want  a  new  note  in  English  music,"  said  Charm- 
y  y  ian,  in  her  clear  and  slightly  authoritative  voice. 
"The  Hallelujah  Chorus  era  has  gone  at  last  to  join 
all  the  Victorian  relics.  And  the  nation  is  drifting  musically. 
Of  course  we  have  a  few  composers  who  are  being  silly  in  the 
attempt  to  be  original,  and  a  few  others  who  still  believe  that 
all  the  people  can  stand  in  the  way  of  home-grown  products 
is  a  ballad  or  a  Te  Deum.  But  what  we  want  is  an  English 
composer  with  a  soul.  I'm  getting  quite  sick  of  heads.  They 
are  bearable  in  literature.  But  when  it  comes  to  music,  one's 
whole  being  clamors  for  more." 

"I  have  heard  a  new  note  in  English  music,"  observed  a 
middle-aged,  bald  and  lively-looking  man,  who  was  sitting  on 
the  opposite  side  of  the  drawing-room  in  Berkeley  Square. 

"Oh,  but,  Max,  you  always — " 

"An  absolutely  new  note,"  interrupted  Max  Elliot  with 
enthusiastic  emphasis,  turning  to  the  man  with  the  sarcastic 
mouth  who  had  just  spoken.  "Your  French  blood  makes 
you  so  inclined  to  incredulity,  Paul,  that  you  are  incapable  of 
believing  anything  but  that  I  am  carried  away." 

"As  usual!" 

"As  sometimes  happens,  I  admit.  But  you  will  allow  that 
in  matters  musical  my  opinion  is  worth  something,  my  serious 
and  deliberately  formed  opinion." 

"How  long  has  this  opinion  been  forming?" 

"Some  months." 

"Some  months!"  exclaimed  Charmian.  "You've  kept 
your  new  note  to  yourself  all  that  time!  Is  it  a  woman?  But 
of  course  it  can't  be.  I  don't  believe  there  will  ever  be  a  great 
woman  composer." 

1 


2  THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

"It  is  not  a  woman." 

"Was  it  born  in  the  gutter?"  asked  Paul  Lane. 

"No." 

"Don't  say  it's  aristocratic!"  said  Charmian,  slightly 
screwing  up  her  rather  Japanese-looking  eyes.  "I  cannot 
believe  that  anything  really  original  in  soul,  really  intense, 
could  emanate  from  the  British  peerage.  I  know  it  too  well." 

"It  is  neither  aristocratic  nor  from  the  gutter.  It  is  of 
the  middle  classes.  Its  father  is  a  banker  in  the  West  of 
England." 

"A  banker!"  said  Charmian  in  a  deplorable  voice. 

"It  is  Cornish." 

"Cornish!  That's  better.  Strange  things  sometimes  come 
out  of  Cornwall." 

"  It  has  a  little  money  of  its  own." 

"And  its  name — " 

"Is  Claude  Heath." 

"Claude  Heath,"  slowly  repeated  Charmian.  "The  name 
means  nothing  to  me.  Do  you  know  it,  Mr.  Lane?" 

Paul  Lane  shook  his  smooth  black  head. 

"Heath  has  not  published  anything,"  said  Max  Elliot, 
quite  unmoved  by  the  scepticism  with  which  the  atmosphere  of 
Mrs.  Mansfield's  drawing-room  was  obviously  charged. 

"Not  even  a  Te  Deum?"  asked  Charmian. 

"No,  though  I  confess  he  has  composed  one." 

"If  he  has  composed  a  Te  Deum  I  give  him  up.  He  is 
vieuxjeu.  He  should  go  and  live  in  the  Crystal  Palace." 

"And  it's  superb!"  added  Max  Elliot.  "Till  I  heard  it  I 
never  realized  what  the  noble  words  of  the  Te  Deum  meant." 

Suddenly  he  got  up  and  moved  toward  the  window  mur- 
muring, "All  the  Earth  doth  worship  Thee,  the  Father  Ever- 
lasting." 

There  was  a  silence  in  the  room.  Charmian's  eyes  suddenly 
filled  with  tears,  she  scarcely  knew  why.  She  felt  as  if  a 
world  was  opening  out  before  her,  as  if  there  were  wide  horizons 
to  call  to  the  gaze  of  those  fitted  to  look  upon  them,  and  as  if, 
perhaps,  she  were  one  of  these  elect. 

"Father  Everlasting!"  The  words,  and  the  way  in  which 
Max  Elliot  had  spoken  them,  struck  into  her  heart,  and  so 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION  3 

made  her  feel  keenly  that  she  was  a  girl  who  had  a  heart  that 
was  not  hard,  that  was  eager,  desirous,  perhaps  deep.  As  to 
Paul  Lane,  he  stared  at  his  remarkably  perfect  boots,  and  drew 
down  the  corners  of  his  lips,  and  his  white  face  seemed  to 
darken  as  if  a  cloud  floated  through  his  mind  and  cast  a  shadow 
outward. 

In  the  pause  the  drawing-room  door  opened,  and  a  woman 
with  blazing  dark  eyes  and  snow-white  hair,  wearing  a  white 
teagown  and  a  necklace  of  very  fine  Egyptian  scarabs,  came 
in,  with  an  intense,  self-possessed  and  inquiring  look.  This 
was  Mrs.  Mansfield,  "my  only  mother,"  as  Charmian  some- 
times absurdly  called  her. 

"You  are  talking,  or  you  were  talking,  of  something  or 
somebody  interesting,"  she  said  at  once,  looking  round  her  at 
the  three  occupants  of  the  room. 

Max  Elliott  turned  eagerly  toward  her.  He  rejoiced  in 
Mrs.  Mansfield,  and  often  came  to  her  to  "warm  his  hands  at 
her  delightful  blaze." 

"Of  somebody  very  interesting." 

"Whom  we  don't  know?" 

"Whom  very  few  people  in  London  know." 

"A  composer,  my  only  mother,  who  never  publishes,  and 
who  is  the  son  of  a  banker  in  the  West  of  England." 

Charmian  seemed  suddenly  to  have  recovered  her  former 
mood,  but  she  blinked  away  two  tears  as  she  spoke. 

"Why  shouldn't  he  be?"  said  Mrs.  Mansfield,  sitting  down 
on  a  large  sofa  which  stood  at  right  angles  to  the  wood  fire. 

"I  know,  but  it  doesn't  seem  right." 

"Don't  be  ridiculously  conventional,  my  only  child." 

Charmian  laughed,  showing  lovely,  and  very  small  teeth. 
She  was  not  unlike  her  mother  in  feature,  but  she  was  taller, 
more  dreamy,  less  vivid,  less  straightforward  in  expression. 
At  times  there  was  a  hint  of  the  minx  in  her.  She  emerged 
from  her  dreams  to  be  impertinent.  A  certain  shrewdness 
mingled  with  her  audacity.  At  such  moments,  as  men  some- 
times said,  "you  never  knew  where  to  have  her."  She  was 
more  self-conscious  and  more  worldly  than  her  mother.  Secret 
ambition  worried  at  her  mind,  and  made  her  restless  in  body. 
When  she  looked  at  a  crowd  she  sometimes  felt  an  almost 


4 

sick  sensation  as  of  one  near  to  drowning.  "Oh,  to  rise,  to 
be  detached  from  all  these  myriads!"  she  thought.  "To 
be  apart  and  recognized  as  apart!  Only  that  can  make 
life  worth  the  living."  She  had  been  heard  to  say,  "I  would 
rather  sink  for  ever  in  the  sea  than  in  the  sea  of  humanity.  I 
would  rather  die  than  be  one  of  the  unknown  living."  Charm- 
ian  sometimes  exaggerated.  But  she  was  genuinely  tormented 
by  the  modern  craze  for  notoriety.  Only  she  called  it  fame. 

Once  she  had  said  something  to  her  mother  of  her  intense 
desire  to  emerge  from  the  crowd.  Mrs.  Mansfield's  reply  was: 
"Do  you  believe  you  have  cre'ative  force  in  you  then?" 
"How  can  I  know?"  Charmian  had  answered.  "I'm  so 
young."  "Try  to  create  something  and  probably  you'll  soon 
find  out,"  returned  her  mother.  Since  that  day  Charmian 
had  tried  to  create  something,  and  had  found  out.  But  she 
had  not  told  Mrs.  Mansfield.  She  was  now  twenty-one,  and 
had  been  just  eighteen  when  her  mother's  advice  had  driven 
her  into  the  energy  which  had  proved  futile. 

Max  Elliot  crossed  the  room  and  sat  down  on  the  sofa  by 
Mrs.  Mansfield.  He  adored  her  quite  openly,  as  many  men  did. 
The  fact  that  she  was  a  widow  and  would  never  marry  again 
made  adoration  of  her  agreeably  uncomplex.  Everybody 
knew  that  Mrs.  Mansfield  would  never  marry  again,  but 
nobody  perhaps  could  have  given  a  perfectly  clear  explanation 
of  how,  or  why,  that  knowledge  had  penetrated  him.  The 
truth  was  that  she  was  a  woman  with  a  great  heart,  and  had 
given  that  heart  to  the  husband  who  was  dead,  and  for  whom 
she  had  never  worn  "weeds." 

"What  are  we  to  do  for  Charmian,  my  dear  Max?"  con- 
tinued Mrs.  Mansfield,  throwing  a  piteous  look  into  her  mobile 
face,  a  piteous  sound  into  her  voice.  "What  can  anyone  do 
for  a  young  woman  of  twenty-one  who,  when  she  is  thinking 
naturally,  thinks  it  impossible  for  a  West  of  England  banker 
to  cause  the  birth  of  a  son  talented  in  an  art?" 

"I  always  said  there  was  intellectual  cruelty  in  mother," 
said  Charmian,  drawing  her  armchair  nearer  to  the  fire. 

"It's  bracing,  tones  up  the  mind,"  said  Paul  Lane.  "But 
what  about  this  new  note?  All  we  know  is  a  Cornish  extrac- 
tion, a  banker  papa  and  a  Te  Deum." 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION  5 

"Oh — a  Te  Deum!"  observed  Mrs.  Mansfield,  looking 
suddenly  sceptical. 

"I  know!  I  know!"  said  Max  Elliot.  "I  didn't  want  to 
hear  it  till  I  had  heard  it.  And  then  I  wanted  to  hear  nothing 
else.  The  touch  of  genius  startles  everything  into  life." 

"Another  genius!"  said  Paul  Lane. 

And  thereupon,  as  if  acting  on  a  sudden  impulse,  he  got  up, 
said  good-bye,  and  went  away  with  his  curiosity,  if  he  had  any, 
ungratified. 

"He's  spoilt  by  the  French  blood  his  mother  gave  him," 
said  Mrs.  Mansfield  as  the  door  closed.  "If  he  had  been  all 
French,  one  might  have  delighted  in  him,  taken  him  on  the 
intellectual  side,  known  where  one  was,  skipped  the  coldness 
and  the  irony,  clung  to  the  wit,  vivacity  and  easy  charm.  But 
he's  a  modern  Frenchman,  boxing  with  an  Englishman  and 
using  his  feet  half  the  time.  And  that's  dreadful.  In  an 
English  drawing-room  I  don't  like  the  Savate.  Now  tell  us, 
tell  us!  I  am  so  thankful  he  is  not  a  celebrity." 

"Nor  ever  likely  to  be  unless  he  marries  the  wrong  woman." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?"  asked  Charmian  with 
curiosity. 

"A  woman  who  is  ambitious  for  him  and  pushes  him." 

"But  if  this  Claude  Heath  has  so  much  talent,  surely  it 
would  be  a  fine  thing  to  make  him  give  it  to  the  world." 

"That  depends  on  his  temperament,  I  daresay,"  said  Mrs. 
Mansfield.  "I  believe  there  are  people  who  ought  to  hide 
their  talents  in  a  napkin." 

" Oh,  mother!     Explain!" 

"Some  plants  can  only  grow  in  darkness." 

"Very  nasty  ones,  I  should  think!  Deadly  nightshade! 
That  sort  of  thing!" 

"Poor  dear!  I  gave  her  light  in  a  vulgar  age.  She  can't 
help  it,"  said  Mrs.  Mansfield  to  Max  Elliot.  "We  are  her 
refined  seniors.  But  sheer  weight  of  years  has  little  influence. 
Never  mind.  Go  on.  You  and  I  at  least  can  understand." 

As  she  spoke  she  laid  her  hand,  on  which  shone  several 
curious  rings,  over  Charmian's,  and  she  kept  it  there  while  Max 
Elliot  gave  some  account  of  Claude  Heath. 

"He's  not  particularly  handsome  in  features.     He's  quite 


6  THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

conventional  in  dress.  His  instinct  would  probably  be  to  use 
the  shell  as  a  close  hiding-place  for  anything  strange,  unusual 
that  it  contains.  He  crops  his  hair,  and,  I  should  think,  wets 
it  two  or  three  tunes  a  day  for  fear  people  should  see  that  it  has 
a  natural  wave  in  it.  His  neckties  are  the  most  humdrum  that 
can  be  discovered  in  the  shops." 

"Does  he  dislike  his  appearance?"  asked  Charmian. 

"I  daresay.  The  worst  of  it  is  that  he  has  eyes  that  give 
the  whole  thing  away  to  a  Mrs.  Mansfield." 

"What,  and  not  to  me?"  said  Charmian,  in  an  injured  note. 

"She's  fairly  sharp,  poor  dear!"  observed  Mrs.  Mansfield, 
in  a  rescuing  voice.  "You  mustn't  be  too  hard  on  her." 

Max  Elliot  smiled. 

"  And  a  Charmian  Mansfield." 

"What  color  are  his  eyes?"  inquired  Charmian. 

"I  really  can't  tell  you  for  certain,  but  I  should  think  dark 
gray." 

"And  where  does  he  live?" 

"In  a  little  house  not  far  from  St.  Petersburg  Place  on  the 
north  side  of  the  Park,  Mullion  House  he  calls  it.  He's  got  a 
studio  there  which  opens  into  a  pocket-handkerchief  of  a 
garden.  He  keeps  two  women  servants." 

"Any  dogs?"  said  Charmian. 

"No." 

"Cats?" 

"Not  that  I  know  of." 

"I  don't  feel  as  if  I  should  like  him.  Does  he  compose  at 
the  piano?" 

"No,  away  from  it." 

"He's  unsympathetic.  Cropped  hair  watered  down,  hum- 
drum neckties,  composing  away  from  the  piano,  no  animals — 
it's  all  against  me  except  the  little  house." 

"Because  you  take  the  wholly  conventional  view  of  the 
musician,"  said  her  mother.  "  If  I  dared  to  say  such  a  thing 
to  my  own  child  I  might  add,  without  telling  a  dangerous  lie, 
because  you  are  so  old-fashioned  in  your  views.  You  can't 
forget  having  read  the  Vie  de  BohBme,  and  having  heard,  and 
unfortunately  seen,  Paderewski  when  you  were  a  schoolgirl  at 
Brighton." 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION  7 

"It  is  my  beloved  mother's  fault  that  I  ever  was  a  school- 
girl at  Brighton." 

"Ah,  don't  press  down  that  burden  of  crime  upon  my  soul! 
Lift  it,  by  freeing  yourself  from  the  Brighton  tradition,  which  I 
ought  to  have  kept  for  ever  from  you.  And  now,  Max,  tell  us, 
whom  does  Mr.  Heath  know?" 

"  I  know  very  little  about  his  acquaintance.  I  met  him  first 
at  Wonderland." 

"What's  that?"  asked  Charmian.  "It  sounds  more 
promising." 

"It's  gone  now,  but  it  was  a  place  in  Whitechapel,  where 
they  had  boxing  competitions,  Conky  Joe  against  the  Nut- 
cracker— that  kind  of  thing." 

"  I  give  him  up,  Te  Deum,  Conky  Joe  and  all!"  she  exclaimed 
in  despair. 

"  Do  you  mean  me  to  meet  him,  Max?"  asked  Mrs.  Mansfield. 

"Yes.  I  can't  keep  him  to  myself  any  longer.  I  must 
share  him  with  someone  who  understands.  Come  to-morrow 
evening,  won't  you,  after  dinner?  Heath  is  dining  with  me." 

"Yes.    Is  Charmian  invited?" 

Max  Elliot  looked  at  Charmian,  and  she  steadily  returned 
Ms  gaze. 

"You  know,"  he  said  after  a  pause,  "that  you've  got  a 
certain  hankering  after  lions?" 

"Hankering!    Don't,  don't!" 

"But  you  really  have!" 

"I  will  not  be  put  with  the  vulgar  crowd  like  that.  I  do 
not  care  for  lions.  Tigers  are  my  taste." 

He  laughed. 

"Do  come  then.  But  remember,  there  are  plants  which 
can  only  grow  in  darkness.  And  I  believe  this  is  one  of  them." 

When  Max  Elliot  had  gone,  Charmian  sat  for  two  or  three 
minutes  looking  into  the  fire,  where  pale,  steely-blue  lights 
played  against  the  prevailing  gold  and  red.  All  the  absurdity, 
the  nonsense,  had  dropped  away  from  her. 

"Max  Elliot  seems  quite  afraid  of  me,"  she  said  at  last. 
"Am  I  so  very  vulgar?" 

"Not  more  so  than  most  intelligent  young  women  who  are 
rather  'in  it'  in  London,"  returned  her  mother. 


8  THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

"Surely  I'm  not  a  climber,  without  knowing  it!" 

"No,  I  don't  think  so.     But  your  peculiar  terror  of  mixing 

with  the  crowd  naturally  makes  you  struggle  a  little,  and  puff 

and  blow  in  the  effort  to  keep  your  head  above  water." 

"How  very  awful!    I  don't  know  why  it  is,  but  your  head 

always  is  well  above  water  without  your  making  any  effort." 
"I  don't  bother  as  to  whether  it  is  or  not,  you  see." 
"No.    But  what  has  it  all  to  do  with  this  Mr.  Heath?" 
"Perhaps  we  shall  find  out  to-morrow  night.     Max  may 

think  you'll  be  inclined  to  rave  about  him." 

"Rave  about  a  cropped  head  that  composes  away  from  the 

piano!" 

"Ah,  that  Brighton  tradition!"  said  Mrs.  Mansfield,  taking 

up  Steiner's  Teosofia. 


CHAPTER  II 

IN  the  comedy  of  London  Mrs.  Mansfield  and  her  daughter 
did  not  play  leading  parts,  but  they  were,  in  che  phrase  of 
the  day,  "very  much  in  it."  Mrs.  Mansfield's  father  had 
been  a  highly  intelligent,  cultivated,  charming  and  well-off 
man,  who  had  had  a  place  in  the  Isle  of  Wight,  and  been  an 
intimate  friend  of  Tennyson,  and  of  most  of  the  big  men  of  his 
day.  Her  mother  had  possessed  the  peculiar  and  rather 
fragile  kind  of  beauty  which  seems  to  attract  great  English, 
painters,  and  had  been  much  admired  and  beloved  in  Melbury 
Road,  Holland  Park,  and  elsewhere.  She,  too,  had  been  intel- 
ligent, intellectual  and  very  musical.  From  Frederick 
Leighton's  little  parties,  where  Joachim  or  Norman  Neruda 
played  to  a  chosen  few,  the  beautiful  Mrs.  Mortimer  and  her 
delightful  husband  were  seldom  missing.  They  were  prominent 
members  of  that  sort  of  family  party  which  made  the  "  Monday 
Pops"  for  years  a  social  as  well  as  an  artistic  function.  And 
their  small,  but  exquisite  house  in  Berkeley  Square,  now 
inherited  by  their  daughter,  was  famous  for  its  "  winter  even- 
ings," at  which  might  be  met  the  creme  de  la  creme  of  the  intel- 
lectual and  artistic  worlds,  and  at  which  no  vulgarian,  however 
rich  and  prominent,  was  ever  to  be  seen. 

Mrs.  Mansfield,  quite  instinctively  and  naturally,  had 
carried  on  the  family  tradition;  at  first  with  her  husband, 
Arthur  Mansfield,  one  of  the  most  cultivated  and  graceful 
members  of  their  "set,"  and  after  his  death  alone.  She  was 
well  off,  had  a  love  of  beauty  and  comfort,  but  a  horror  of 
display,  and  knew  everyone  she  cared  to  know,  without  having 
the  vaguest  idea  who  was,  or  was  not,  included  in  "the  smart 
set."  Having  been  brought  up  among  lions,  she  had  never 
hunted  a  lion  in  her  life,  though  she  had  occasionally  pulled 
the  ears  of  one,  or  stroked  its  nose.  She  had  been,  and  was, 
the  intimate  friend  of  many  men  and  women  who  were  "doing 
things"  in  the  world.  But  she  had  never  felt  within  herself 

9 


10         THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

the  power  to  create  anything  original,  and  was  far  too  intelli- 
gent, far  too  aristocratic  in  mind,  to  struggle  impotently  to  be 
what  she  was  not  meant  to  be,  or  to  fight  against  her  own 
clearly  seen  limitations. 

Unlike  Mrs.  Mansfield  in  this  respect  Charmian  struggled, 
and  her  mother  knew  it. 

On  the  following  evening,  when  Charmian  and  her  mother 
were  dining  together  before  going  to  Max  Elliot's,  she  said 
rather  abruptly: 

"  Why  didn't  Mr.  Elliot  invite  us  to  dinner  to-night,  do  you 
think?" 

"Why  should  he  have  invited  us?" 

"Well,  perhaps  it  wasn't  necessary.  But  surely  it  would 
have  been  quite  natural." 

"Probably  he  wanted  to  prepare  the  new  note  for  you." 

"  Why  should  I  require  preparation?" 

"The  new  note!" 

"Why  should  the  new  note  require  preparation  against  me?" 

"I  said  for  you.  Possibly  we  may  find  out  this  evening. 
Besides  Delia  is  in  a  rest  cure  as  usual.  So  there  is  no  hostess." 

Delia  was  Max  Elliot's  wife,  a  graceful  nonentity  who, 
having  never  done  a  stroke  of  work  in  her  life,  was  perpetually 
breaking  down,  and  being  obliged  to  rest  expensively  under 
the  supervision  of  fashionable  doctors.  She  was  now  in  Hamp- 
stead,  enclosed  in  a  pale  green  chamber,  living  on  milk  and  a 
preparation  called  "Marella,"  and  enjoying  injections  of  salt 
water.  She  was  also  being  massaged  perpetually  by  a  stout 
young  woman  from  Sweden,  and  was  deprived  of  her  letters. 
"No  letters!"  was  a  prescription  which  had  made  her  physician 
celebrated. 

"Oh,  the  peace  of  it!"  Mrs.  Elliot  was  faintly  murmuring 
to  the  athletic  masseuse,  at  the  very  moment  when  Charmian 
said: 

"There  very  seldom  is  a  hostess.     Poor  Max  Elliot!" 

"He's  accustomed  to  it.  And  Delia  must  be  doing  some- 
thing. This  time  she  may  be  cured.  Life  originally  issued 
from  the  sea,  they  say." 

"Near  Margate,  I  suppose.     What  a  mystery  existence  is!" 

"Are  you  going  to  be  tiresome  to-night?" 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION          11 

"No,  I  won't,  I  won't.  But  if  he  plays  his  Te  Deum  I 
linow  I  shall  sleep  like  a  tired  child." 

"I  don't  suppose  he  will." 

"I  feel  he's  going  to." 

"Then  why  were  you  so  anxious  to  go?" 

"I  don't  like  to  be  left  out  of  things.     No  one  does." 

"Except  the  elect.  How  thoughtful  of  you  to  dress  in 
black!" 

"Well,  dearest,  you  are  always  in  white.  And  I  love  to 
throw  up  my  beautiful  mother." 

Mrs.  Mansfield  put  an  arm  gently  round  her  as  they  left  the 
dining-room. 

"You  could  make  any  mother  be  a  sister  to  you." 

Just  before  ten  their  motor  glided  up  to  the  Elliots'  green 
door  in  Cadogan  Place. 

Max  Elliot  was  the  very  successful  senior  partner  of  an  old- 
established  stockbroking  firm  in  the  City.  This  was  a  fact, 
so  people  had  to  accept  it.  But  acceptance  was  made  difficult 
by  his  almost  strangely  unfinancial  appearance  and  manner. 
Out  of  the  City  he  never  spoke  of  the  City.  He  was  devoted 
to  the  arts,  and  especially  to  music,  of  which  he  had  a  really 
considerable  knowledge.  All  prominent  musicians  knew  him. 
He  was  the  friend  of  prime  donne,  a  pillar  of  the  opera,  an  ardent 
frequenter  of  all  the  important  concerts.  Where  Threadneedle 
Street  came  into  his  life  nobody  seemed  to  know.  Neverthe- 
less, his  numerous  clients  trusted  him  completely  as  a  business 
man.  And  more  than  one  singer,  whose  artistic  temperament 
had  brought  her — or  him,  as  the  case  might  be — to  the  door 
of  the  poorhouse,  had  reason  to  bless  Max  Elliot's  shrewd 
business  head  and  generous  industry  in  friendship.  He  had  a 
good  heart  as  well  as  a  fine  taste,  and  his  power  of  criticism 
had  not  succeeded  in  killing  his  capacity  for  enthusiasm. 

"He's  not  begun  yet!"  murmured  Charmian  to  her  mother, 
as  the  butler  led  them  sedately  down  a  rather  long  hall,  past 
two  or  three  doors,  to  the  music-room  which  Elliot  had  built 
out  at  the  back  of  his  house. 

"I  never  heard  that  he  was  going  to  begin  at  all.  We 
haven't  come  here  for  a  performance,  but  to  make  an  acquaint- 
ance." 


12         THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

Charmian  twisted  her  lips,  and  the  butler  opened  the  door 
and  announced  them. 

At  the  end  of  the  room,  which-was  panelled  with  wood  and 
was  high,  by  a  large  open  fireplace,  Max  Elliot  was  sitting  with 
Paul  Lane  and  two  other  people,  a  woman  and  a  young  man. 
The  woman  was  large  and  broad,  with  brown  hair,  reckless 
hazel  eyes,  and  a  nose  and  mouth  which  suggested  a  Roman 
emperor.  She  looked  about  thirty-five.  In  her  large  ears, 
which  were  set  very  flat  against  her  head,  there  were  long, 
diamond  earrings,  and  diamonds  glittered  round  her  neck. 
She  was  laughing  when  the  Mansfields  came  in,  and  went  on 
laughing  while  Max  Elliot  went  to  receive  them. 

"Mrs.  Shiffney  has  just  come,"  he  said.  "Paul  has  been 
dining." 

"And — the  other?"  murmured  Charmian,  with  a  hushed 
air  of  awed  expectation  which  was  not  free  from  a  hint  of 
mockery. 

Mrs.  Mansfield  sent  her  a  glance  of  half-humorous  re- 
buke. 

"Claude  Heath,"  answered  Elliot. 

"How  wonderful  he  is." 

"Charmian,  don't  be  tiresome!"  observed  her  mother,  as 
they  went  toward  the  fire. 

The  two  men  got  up,  and  Charmian  had  an  impression  of 
height,  of  a  bony  slimness  that  was  almost  cadaverous,  of 
irregular  features,  rather  high  cheek-bones,  brown,  very  short 
hair,  and  large,  enthusiastic  and  observant  eyes  that  glanced 
almost  piercingly  at  her,  and  quickly  looked  away. 

Mrs.  Shiffney  remained  in  her  armchair,  moved  her  shoul- 
ders, and  said  in  a  rather  deep,  but  not  disagreeable  voice: 

"Mr.  Heath  and  I  are  hearing  all  about  'Marella.'  It 
builds  you  up  if  you  are  a  skeleton  and  pulls  you  down  if  you 
are  enormous,  as  I  am.  It  makes  you  sleep  if  you  suffer  from 
insomnia,  and  if  you  have  the  sleeping  sickness  it  wakes  you  up. 
Dr.  Curling  has  patented  it,  and  feeds  his  patients  on  nothing 
else.  Delia  is  living  entirely  on  it,  and  is  to  emerge  looking 
seventeen  and  a  female  Sandow.  Mr.  Heath  is  longing  to 
try  it." 

She  had  held  out  a  powerful  hand  to  the  new  arrivals,  and 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION          13 

now  turned  toward  the  composer,  who  stood  waiting  to  be 
introduced. 

"Oh,  but  no,  please!"  said  Heath,  speaking  quickly  and 
almost  anxiously,  witi  a  certain  naivete  that  was  attractive, 
but  that  did  not  suggest  simplicity,  but  rather  great  sensitive- 
ness of  mind.  "I  never  take  quack  medicines  or  foods.  I 
have  no  need  to.  And  I  think  they're  all  invented  to  hum- 
bug us." 

Max  Elliot  took  him  by  the  arm. 

"I  want  to  introduce  you  to  a  dear  friend  of  mine,  Mrs. 
Mansfield." 

He  paused  and  added: 

"Mr.  Claude  Heath— Miss  Mansfield." 

Paul  Lane  began  talking  to  Charmian  when  the  two  hand- 
shakes— Heath  had  shaken  hands  quickly — were  over.  She 
looked  across  the  room,  and  saw  her  mother  in  conversation 
with  the  composer.  And  she  knew  immediately  that  he  had 
conceived  a  strong  liking  for  her  mother.  It  seemed  to  her 
in  that  moment  as  if  his  liking  for  her  mother  might  prevent 
him  from  liking  her,  and,  she  did  not  know  why,  she  was  aware 
of  a  faint  sensation  of  hostility  toward  him.  Yet  usually  the 
fact  that  a  man  admired,  or  was  fond  of,  Mrs.  Mansfield  pre- 
disposed Charmian  in  his  favor. 

Perhaps  to-night  she  was  in  a  tiresome  mood,  as  her  mother 
had  hinted. 

As  she  talked  to  Paul  Lane,  whom  she  had  known  pretty 
well  for  years,  and  liked  as  much  as  she  could  ever  like  him, 
she  was  secretly  intent  on  the  new  note.  Her  quick  mind 
of  an  intelligent  girl,  who  had  seen  many  people  and  been 
much  in  contact  with  the  London  world,  was  pacing  about  him, 
measuring,  weighing,  summing  up  with  the  audacity  of  youth. 
Whether  he  pleased  her  eyes  she  was  not  sure.  But  through 
her  eyes  he  interested  her. 

Heath  was  tall,  and  looked  taller  than  he  was  because  he 
was  almost  emaciated,  and  he  was  a  plain  man  whom  some- 
thing made  beautiful,  not  handsome.  This  was  a  strange,  and 
almost  mysterious  imaginativeness  which  was  expressed  by 
his  face,  and  even,  perhaps,  by  something  in  his  whole  bearing 
and  manner.  It  looked  out  certainly  at  many  moments  from 


14          THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

his  eyes.  But  not  only  his  eyes  shadowed  it  forth.  The  brow, 
the  rather  thin  lips,  the  hands,  and  occasionally  their  move- 
ments, suggested  it.  His  face  was  not  what  is  often  called  "  an 
open  face."  Although  quite  free  from  slyness,  or  anything 
unpleasantly  furtive,  it  had  a  shut,  reserved  look  when  his 
eyes  were  cast  down.  There  was  something  austere,  combined 
with  something  eager  and  passionate,  in  his  expression  and 
manner.  Charmian  guessed  him  to  be  twenty-six  or  twenty- 
seven. 

He  was  now  turned  sideways  to  Charmian,  and  was  moving 
rather  restlessly  on  the  sofa  beside  Mrs.  Mansfield,  but  was 
listening  with  obvious  intentness  to  what  she  was  saying. 
Charmian  found  herself  wondering  how  she  knew  that  he  had 
taken  a  swift  liking  to  her  mother. 

"Did  you  have  an  interesting  time  at  dinner?"  she  asked 
Paul  Lane. 

"Not  specially  so.     Music  was  never  mentioned." 

"Was  boxing?" 

"Boxing!" 

"  Well,  Mr.  Elliot  said  he  and  Mr.  Heath  met  first  at  a  place 
in  Whitechapel  where  Conky  somebody  was  fighting  the 
Nutcracker." 

Lane  smiled  with  his  mouth. 

"I  suspect  the  new  note  to  be  a  poseur,  not  quite  of  the 
usual  species,  but  a  poseur.  Most  musicians  are  ludicrously 
of  their  profession.  This  one  is  too  much  apparently  de- 
tached from  it  to  be  quite  natural.  But  the  truth  is,  nobody 
is  really  natural.  And  no  doubt  it's  a  great  mercy  that  it 
is  so." 

Charmian  looked  at  him  for  a  few  seconds  in  silence.  Then 
she  observed: 

"You  know  there's  something  in  you  that  I  can't  abide,  as 
old  dames  say." 

This  time  Lane  really  smiled. 

"I  hope  so,"  he  said.  "Or  else  I  should  certainly  lack 
variety.  Well,  Max,  what  is  it?" 

"  Mrs.  Shiffney  wants  you." 

"I  always  want  him.  I  swim  in  his  irony  and  can't  sink, 
like  a  tourist  in  the  Dead  Sea." 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION          15 

"What  a  left-handed  compliment!" 

"  A  right-handed  one  would  bore  you  to  death,  and  my  aim 
in  life  is—" 

"  To  avoid  being  bored.  How  often  do  you  succeed  in  your 
aim?" 

"  Whenever  I  am  with  you  in  this  delightful  house." 

"It  is  delightful,"  said  Charmian  to  her  host.  "But  why? 
Of  course  it  is  beautiful.  But  that's  not  all.  It's  personal. 
Perhaps  that's  it." 

She  got  up,  and  walked  slowly  away  from  the  fire,  very 
naturally,  with  a  gesture,  just  touching  her  soft  cheek  and 
fluttering  her  fingers  toward  the  glow,  as  if  she  were  too  hot. 
Max  Elliot  accompanied  her. 

"And  all  the  lovely  music  that  has  sounded  here,"  she 
continued,  "perhaps  lingers  silently  in  the  air,  and,  without 
being  aware  of  it,  we  feel  the  vibrations." 

She  sat  down  on  a  sofa  near  the  Stein  way  grand  piano, 
which  stood  on  a  low  dais,  looked  up  at  Max  Elliot,  and  added, 
in  quite  a  different  voice: 

"Shall  we  hear  any  of  his  music  to-night?"j 

"I  believe  now  we  may." 

"Why— now?" 

Elliot  looked  toward  Mrs.  Mansfield. 

"Because  of  mother,  you  mean?" 

"He  likes  her." 

"Anyone  can  see  that." 

After  a  moment  she  added,  with  a  touch  of  irritation: 

"He's  evidently  very  difficile  for  an  unknown  man." 

"No,  it  isn't  that  at  all.  If  you  ever  know  him  well,  you 
will  understand." 

"What?"  she  asked  with  petulance. 

"That  his  reserve  is  a  right  instinct,  nothing  more.  Be- 
tween ourselves,"  he  bent  toward  her,  "I  made  a  little  mistake 
in  asking  Mrs.  Shiffney,  delightful  though  she  is." 

"I  wondered  why  you  had  asked  her,  when  you  didn't 
want  even  to  ask  me." 

"Middle-aged  as  I  am,  I  get  carried  away  by  people.  I 
met  Mrs.  Shiffney  to-day  at  a  concert.  She  was  so  absolutely 
right  in  her  enthusiasm,  so  clever  and  artistic — though  she's 


16         THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

ignorant  of  music — over  the  whole  thing,  that — well,  here 
she  is." 

"And  here  I  am!" 

"Yes,  here  you  are!"  he  said  genially. 

He  had  been  standing.  Now  he  sat  down  beside  her, 
crossed  one  leg  over  the  other,  held  his  knee  with  his  clasped 
hands,  and  continued: 

"The  worst  of  it  is  Mrs.  Shiffney  has  made  him  bolt  several 
doors.  When  she  looked  at  him  I  could  see  at  once  that  she 
made  him  feel  transparent." 

"Poor  thing!  Tell  me,  do  you  enjoy  very  much  protecting 
all  the  sensitive  artistic  temperaments  that  come  into  this 
room?  Do  you  enjoy  arranging  the  cotton- wool  wadding  so 
that  there  may  be  no  chance  of  a  nasty  jar,  to  say  nothing  of 
a  breakage?" 

He  pursed  his  rather  thick  lips,  that  smiled  so  easily. 

"When  the  treasure  is  a  treasure,  genuinely  valuable,  I 
don't  mind  it.  I  feel  then  that  I  am  doing  worthy  service." 

"You  really  are  a  dear,  you  know!"  she  said,  with  a  sudden 
change,  a  melting.  "  It  was  good  of  you  to  ask  me,  when  you 
didn't  want  to." 

She  leaned  a  little  toward  him,  with  one  light  hand  palm 
downward  on  the  cushion  of  the  sofa,  and  her  small,  rather 
square  chin  thrust  forward  in  a  way  that  made  her  look  sud- 
denly intense. 

"  I'll  try  not  to  be  like  Mrs.  Shiffney.  I'll  try  not  to  make 
him  feel  transparent." 

"I'm  not  sure  that  you  could,"  he  said,  smiling  at  her. 

"How  horrid  of  you  to  doubt  my  powers!  Why,  why  will 
nobody  believe  I  have  anything  in  me?" 

She  brought  the  words  out  with  a  force  that  was  almost 
vicious.  As  she  said  them  it  happened  that  Claude  Heath 
turned  a  little.  His  eyes  travelled  down  the  room  and  met 
hers.  Perhaps  her  mother  had  just  been  speaking  to  him  of 
her,  had  been  making  some  assertion  about  her.  For  he 
seemed  to  look  at  her  with  inquiry. 

When  Charmian  turned  away  her  eyes  from  his  she  added 
to  Max  Elliot: 

"But  what  does  it  matter?     Because  people,  some  people, 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION          17 

can't  see  a  thing,  that  doesn't  prove  that  it  has  no  existence. 
And  I  don't  really  care  what  people  think  of  me." 

"This — to  your  old  friend!" 

"Yes.    And  besides,  I  expect  one  must  possess  to  discover." 

Her  voice  was  almost  complacent. 

"You  deal  in  enigmas  to-night." 

"One  ought  to  carry  a  light  when  one  goes  into  a  cave  to 
seek  for  gold." 

But  Elliot  would  not  let  her  see  that  he  had  from  the  first 
fully  understood  her  impertinence. 

"Let  us  go  back  to  the  fire,"  he  said.  "Unless  you  are 
really  afraid  of  the  heat.  Let  us  hear  what  your  mother  and 
Heath  are  talking  about." 

"I'm  not  afraid  of  anything  except  a  Te  Deum." 

"There's  Mrs.  Shiffney  speaking  to  him.  I  don't  think 
we  shall  have  it  to-night." 

"Then  I'll  venture  to  draw  near,"  said  Charmian,  again 
assuming  a  semblance  of  awe. 

The  minx  was  evidently  uppermost  in  her  as  they  approached 
the  others.  She  walked  with  a  dainty  slowness,  a  composed 
consciousness,  that  were  almost  the  least  bit  affected,  and  as 
she  stood  still  for  a  minute  close  to  her  mother,  with  her  long 
eyes  half  shut,  she  looked  typically  of  the  world  worldly, 
languid,  almost  prettily  disdainful. 

Mrs.  Shiffney  was  speaking  of  the  concert  of  that  afternoon 
with  discrimination  and  with  enthusiasm. 

"Of  course  he's  a  little  monkey,"  she  concluded,  evidently 
alluding  to  some  artist.  "But  what  a  little  monkey!  I  was 
in  the  front  row,  and  he  called  my  attention  to  everything  he 
was  going  to  do,  sometimes  in  Russian,  sometimes  in  dreadful 
French,  or  in  English  that  was  really  a  criminal  offense,  and 
very  often  with  his  right  elbow.  He  has  a  way  of  nudging 
the  air  in  one's  direction  so  that  one  feels  it  in  one's  side. 
Animal  magnetism,  I  suppose.  And  he  begs  for  sympathy 
as  if  it  were  a  biscuit.  Do  you  know  him,  Mr.  Heath?" 

"No,  not  at  all.     I  know  very  few  big  artists." 

"But  all  the  young  coming  ones,  I  suppose?  Did  you 
study  abroad?" 

"I  went  to  the  Royal  College  at  Kensington  Gore." 
2 


18         THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

Mrs.  Shiffney,  who  was  very  cosmopolitan,  had  a  flat  in 
Paris,  and  was  more  often  out  of  England  than  in  it,  slightly 
raised  her  eyebrows. 

"You  haven't  studied  in  France  or  Germany?" 

Heath  began  to  look  rather  uncomfortable,  and  slightly 
self-conscious. 

"  No,"  he  said  quickly. 

He  paused,  then  as  if  with  a  decided  effort  he  added: 

"I  think  the  training  a  student  gets  at  the  Royal  College 
is  splendid." 

"Of  course  it  is,"  said  Max  Elliot,  heartily. 

Mrs.  Shiffney  shook  her  shoulders. 

"I'm  sure  it's  quite  perfect,"  she  said,  in  her  rather  deep 
voice,  gazing  at  the  young  composer  with  eyes  in  which  a  light 
satire  twinkled.  "Don't  think  I'm  criticizing  it.  Only  I'm 
so  dreadfully  un-English,  and  I  think  English  musicians  get 
rather  into  a  groove.  The  Hallelujah  bow-wow,  you  know!" 

At  this  point  in  the  conversation  Charmian  tranquilly 
interposed. 

"Mr.  Heath,"  she  said,  slightly  protruding  her  chin,  "when 
you've  done  with  my  only  mother" — Mrs.  Shiffney's  lips 
tightened  ever  so  little — "I  want  you  to  be  very  nice  to 
me." 

"Please  tell  me,"  said  Heath,  with  the  almost  anxious 
eagerness  that  seemed  to  be  characteristic  of  him. 

Mrs.  Mansfield  fixed  her  blazing  eyes  on  her  daughter, 
slightly  drawing  down  her  gray  eyebrows. 

"Well,  it's  rather  a  secret." 

Charmian  glanced  round  at  the  others,  then  she  added: 

"  It's  about  the  Nutcracker." 

"The  Nutcracker!" 

Heath  puckered  up  his  forehead. 

"Yes."  She  moved  a  little,  and  looked  at  the  chair  not 
far  from  the  fire  on  which  she  had  sat  wheru  first  she  came  into 
the  room.  "I  care  rather  for  boxing.  Now" — she  went 
slowly  toward  the  chair,  followed  by  Heath,  "what  I  want  to 
know,  and  what  you  can  tell  me,  is  this" — she  sat  down,  and 
leaned  her  chin  on  her  upturned  palm — "on  present  form  do 
you  believe  the  Nutcracker  is  up  to  Conky  Ja-ky  Joe?" 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION          19 

As  Claude  Heath  sat  down  to  reply  to  this  question,  Mrs. 
Shiffney  said: 

"Conkyjarky  Joe!  I  thought  I  was  dans  le  mouvement 
up  to  my  dog-collar,  but  I  know  nothing  about  the  phenomenon. 
Where  does  it  belong  to?" 

"Wonderland,"  said  Elliot,  in  a  gravely  romantic  voice. 

"That's  the  land  I've  never  seen,  although  I've  had  the 
yacht  for  so  many  years." 

"Nor  I!"  said  Paul. Lane.  "I  don't  believe  it  exists,  or 
we  must  have  been  there.  We  have  both  been  everywhere." 

"Tell  the  poor  things  about  it,"  said  Mrs.  Mansfield. 
"Then  Adelaide  can  get  up  steam  on  The  Wanderer  and 
realize  her  dreams." 

"But  Mr.  Elliot  told  me  he  met  you  there,  and  I  remember 
distinctly  his  saying  the  fight  was  on  between  those  two  pets 
of  the  ring,"  said  Charmian  plaintively,  after  a  certain  amount 
of  negation  from  Claude  Heath. 

"Yes,  but  I'm  sure  he  didn't  tell  you  I  was  an  authority  on 
boxing  form." 

"You  aren't?" 

"No,  indeed!" 

"But  you  want  to  be?" 

"I  shouldn't  mind.     But  it  isn't  my  chief  ami  in  life." 

Charmian  was  silent.  She  leaned  back,  taking  her  chin 
from  her  hand,  and  at  last  said  gravely: 

" It  isn't  that,  then?" 

"That — what?"  exclaimed  Heath,  looking  at  her  and  away 
from  her. 

"That  you  want.  It's  something  else.  Because  you 
know  you  want  a  very,  very  great  deal  of  something." 

"Oh,  a  good  many  of  us  do,  I  suppose." 

"I  don't  think  I  do.  I'm  quite  satisfied  with  my  life. 
I  have  a  good  mother,  a  comfortable  home.  What  should  a 
properly-brought-up  English  girl,  who  has  been  educated  at 
Brighton,  want  more?" 

"I'm  very  glad  indeed  to  know  that  a  Brighton  education 
stands  its  receiver  in  such  good  stead  in  the  after  years,  very 
glad  indeed!" 

"You  are  laughing  at  me.     And  that's  unchristian." 


20         THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

"Oh,  but — but  you  were  laughing  at  me!" 

Despite  Heath's  eagerness,  and  marked  social  readiness  of 
manner,  Charmian  was  disagreeably  conscious  of  a  mental 
remoteness  in  him.  Only  the  tip  of  his  mind,  perhaps  scarcely 
that,  was  in  touch  with  hers.  Now  she  almost  regretted  that 
she  had  chosen  to  begin  their  acquaintance  with  absurdity, 
that  she  had  approached  Heath  with  a  pose.  She  scarcely 
knew  why  she  had  done  so.  But  she  half  thought,  only  half 
because  of  her  self-respect,  that  she  had  been  a  little  afraid  of 
him,  and  so  had  instinctively  caught  up  some  armor,  put  a 
shield  in  front  of  her.  Was  she  really  impressed  by  a  well- 
spoken-of  Te  Deum?  She  glanced  at  Heath  inscrutably,  as 
only  woman  can,  and  knew  that  she  was  not.  It  was  the  man 
himself  who  had  caused  her  to  fall  into  what  she  already 
thought  of  as  a  mistake.  There  was  in  Heath  something  that 
almost  confused  her.  And  she  was  not  accustomed  to  be 
confused. 

"I've  made  a  bad  beginning,"  she  almost  blurted  out,  not 
able  to  escape  from  artifice,  yet  speaking  truth.  "And  I'm 
generally  rather  good  at  beginnings.  It's  so  easy  to  take  the 
first  step,  I  think,  despite  that  silly  saying  which,  of  course, 
I'm  not  going  to  quote.  It's  when  one  is  getting  to  know  a 
person  really  well  that  difficulties  generally  begin." 

"Do  they?" 

"Yes,  because  it's  then  that  very  reserved  people  begin 
hurriedly  building  barricades,  isn't  it?  I  ask  you,  because 
I'm  not  at  all  reserved." 

"But  how  should  I  know  any  better  than  you?" 

"You  mean,  when  you're  so  unreserved,  too?  No,  that's 
true." 

Heath's  eyes  troubled  Charmian.  She  was  feeling  with 
every  moment  less  at  ease  in  his  companionship  and  more 
determined  to  seem  at  ease.  Being  generally  self-possessed, 
she  had  a  horror  of  slipping  into  shyness  and  so  retrograding 
from  her  usual  vantage  ground.  She  expected  him  to  speak. 
It  was  his  turn.  But  he  said  nothing.  She  felt  sure  that  he 
had  seen  through  her  last  lie,  and  that  he  was  secretly  resenting 
it  as  a  heavy-footed  approach  to  sacred  ground.  What  a 
blunderer  she  was  to-night  1  Desperation  seized  her. 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION          21 

"We  must  leave  the  question  to  the  reserved,"  she  said. 
"Poor  things!  I  always  pity  them.  They  can  never  taste 
life  as  you  and  I  and  our  kind  are  able  to.  We  are  put  here  to 
try  to  know  and  to  be  known.  I  feel  sure  of  that.  So  the 
reserved  are  for  ever  endeavoring  to  escape  their  destiny. 
No  wonder  they  are  punished!" 

"  I  am  not  sure  that  I  entirely  agree  with  your  view  as  to 
the  reason  why  we  are  put  here,"  observed  Heath,  without 
a  trace  of  obvious  sarcasm.  Nevertheless,  the  mere  words 
stung  Charmian's  almost  childish  self-conceit. 

"But  I  wasn't  claiming  to  have  pierced  the  Creator's  most 
secret  designs!"  she  exclaimed.  "I  was  simply  endeavoring 
to  state  that  it  can  scarcely  be  natural  for  men  and  women  to 
try  to  hide  all  they  are  from  each  other.  I  think  there's 
something  ugly  in  hiding  things;  and  ugliness  can't  be 
meant." 

"Ugliness  is  certainly  not  meant,"  said  Heath,  and  for  the 
first  time  she  felt  as  if  she  were  somewhere  not  very  far  from 
him.  "  Except  very  often  by  man.  Isn't  it  astonishing  that 
men  created  Venice  and  that  men  have  now  put  steam  launches 
in  the  canals  of  Venice!" 

Venice!  Charmian  seized  upon  the  word,  mentally  leaped 
upon  and  clung  to  the  city  in  the  sea.  From  that  moment 
their  conversation  became  easier,  and  gradually  Charmian 
began  to  recover  from  her  strange  social  prostration.  So 
she  thought  of  it.  She  forced  the  note,  no  doubt.  After- 
ward she  was  unpleasantly  conscious  of  that.  But  at  any  rate 
the  talk  flowed.  There  was  some  give  and  take.  The  joints 
of  their  intercourse  did  not  creak  as  if  despairingly  appealing 
to  be  oiled.  Of  course  it  was  very  banal  to  talk  about  Italy. 
But,  still,  these  moments  must  come  sometimes  to  all  those  who 
go  much  into  the  world.  And  what  is  Italy,  beautiful,  siren- 
like  Italy,  for  if  not  to  be  talked  about?  Charmian  said  that 
to  herself  afterward,  and  was  amazed  at  her  own  vulgarity  of 
mind.  Ah,  yes!  That  was  what  she  had  disliked  in  Claude 
Heath — his  faculty  of  making  her  feel  almost  vulgar-minded, 
vulgar-intellected!  She  coined  horrible  bastard  words  in 
her  efforts  to  condemn  him.  But  all  that  was  later  on, 
when  she  had  even  said  good-night  to  her  only  mother. 


22         THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

Their  te'te-a-te'te  was  broken  by  Mrs.  Shiffney's  departure 
to  a  reception  at  the  Ritz.  She  must  surely  have  been  dis- 
appointed in  the  musician;  buVif  so,  she  was  too  clever  to 
show  it.  And  she  was  by  way  of  being  a  good-natured  woman 
and  seldom  seemed  to  think  ill  of  anybody.  "I  have  so  many 
sins  on  my  own  conscience,"  she  sometimes  said,  "  that  I  decline 
to  see  other  people's.  I  want  them  to  be  blind  to  mine.  Sin 
and  let  sin  is  an  excellent  rule  in  social  life."  She  seldom  con- 
demned anyone  except  a  bore. 

"  If  you  ever  pay  a  call,  which  I  doubt,"  she  said  to  Claude 
Heath  as  she  was  going,  "I'm  in  Grosvenor  Square.  The 
Red  Book  will  tell  you." 

She  looked  at  him  with  her  almost  insolently  self-possessed 
and  careless  eyes,  and  added: 

"Perhaps  some  day  you'll  come  on  the. yacht  and  show  me 
the  course  to  set  for  Wonderland.  Mr.  Elliot  says  you  know  it. 
And  of  course  we  all  want  to.  I've  been  everywhere  except 
there." 

"I  doubt  if  a  yacht  could  take  us  there,"  said  Heath, 
smiling  as  if  to  cover  something  grave  or  sad. 

A  piercing  look  again  came  into  Mrs.  Shiffney's  eyes. 

"I  really  hope  I  shall  see  you  in  Grosvenor  Square,"  she 
said. 

Without  giving  him  time  to  say  anything  more  she  went 
away,  accompanied  from  the  room  by  Max  Elliot,  walking 
carelessly  and  looking  very  powerful  and  almost  outrageously 
self-possessed. 

Within  the  music-room  there  was  a  moment's  silence. 
Then  Paul  Lane  said: 

"Delightful  creature!'* 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Mansfield.  "Adelaide  is  delightful. 
And  why?  She  always  thinks  of  herself,  lives  for  herself. 
She  wouldn't  put  herself  out  for  anyone.  I've  known  her 
for  years  and  would  never  go  to  her  in  a  difficulty  or  trust  her 
with  a  confidence.  And  yet  I  delight  in  her.  I  think  it's 
because  she's  so  entirely  herself." 

"She's  a  darling!"  said  Lane.  "She's  so  preposterously 
human,  in  her  way,  and  yet  she's  always  distinguished. 
And  she's  so  clever  as  well  as  so  ignorant.  I  love  that  com- 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION          23 

bination.     Even  on  a  yacht  she  never  seems  to  have  a  bad 
day." 

Charmian  looked  at  Claude  Heath,  who  was  silent.  She 
was  wondering  whether  he  meant  to  call  in  Grosvenor  Square, 
whether  he  would  ever  set  sail  with  Mrs.  Shiffney  on  The 
Wanderer. 


CHAPTER  III 

"\  \  T^HEN  Max  Elliot  came  back  they  gathered  round  the 
y  y  fire,  no  longer  split  up  into  duets,  and  the  conversa- 
tion was  general.  Heath  joined  in  frequently,  and 
with  the  apparent  eagerness  which  was  evidently  characteristic 
of  him.  He  had  facility  in  speaking,  great  quickness  of  utter- 
ance, and  energy  of  voice.  When  he  listened  he  suggested  to 
Charmian  a  mind  so  alive  as  to  be  what  she  called  "on  the 
pounce."  He  had  an  odd  air  of  being  swayed,  carried  away, 
by  what  those  around  him  were  saying,  even  by  what  they  were 
thinking,  as  if  something  in  his  nature  demanded  to  acquiesce. 
Yet  she  fancied  that  he  was  secretly  following  his  own  line  of 
thought  with  a  persistence  that  was  almost  cold. 

Lane  led  the  talk  at  first,  and  displayed  less  of  his  irony 
than  usual.  He  was  probably  not  a  happy  man,  though  he 
never  spoke  of  being  unhappy.  His  habitual  expression  was 
of  discontent,  and  he  was  too  critical  of  life,  endeavor,  char- 
acter, to  be  easily  satisfied.  But  to-night  he  seemed  in  a  softer 
mood  than  usual.  Perhaps  he  had  an  object  in  seeming  so. 
He  was  a  man  very  curious  in  the  arts.  Elliot,  who  knew  him 
well,  was  conscious  that  something  in  Heath's  personality  had 
made  a  strong  impression  upon  him,  and  thought  he  was  trying 
to  create  a  favorable  atmosphere  in  the  hope  that  music 
might  come  of  it.  If  this  was  so,  he  labored  in  vain.  And 
soon  doubtless  he  knew  it.  For  he,  too,  pleaded  another 
engagement,  and,  like  Mrs.  Shiffney,  got  up  to  go. 

Directly  the  door  shut  behind  him  Charmian  was  conscious 
of  relief  and  excitement.  She  even,  almost  despite  herself, 
began  to  hope  for  a  Te  Deum;  and,  hoping,  she  found  means 
to  be  wise.  She  effaced  herself,  so  she  believed,  by  with- 
drawing a  little  into  a  corner  near  the  fire,  holding  up  her 
Conder  fan  open  to  shield  her  face  from  the  glow,  and  taking 
no  part  in  the  conversation,  while  listening  to  it  with  a  pretty 
appearance  of  dreaminess.  She  was  conscious  of  her  charming 

24 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION          25 

attitude,  of  the  line  made  by  her  slender  upraised  arm,  and 
not  unaware  of  the  soft  and  almost  transparent  beauty  the 
light  of  a  glowing  fire  gives  to  delicate  flesh.  Nevertheless, 
she  really  tried,  in  a  perhaps  half-hearted  way,  to  withdraw 
her  personality  into  the  mist.  And  this  she  did  because  she 
knew  well  that  her  mother,  not  she,  was  en  rapport  with  Claude 
Heath. 

"I'm  out  of  it,"  she  said  to  herself,  "and  mother's  in  it." 

Mrs.  Shiff  ney  had  been  a  restraint,  Lane  had  been  a  restraint. 
It  would  be  dreadful  if  she  were  the  third  restraining  element. 
She  would  have  liked  to  be  triumphantly  active  in  bringing 
things  about.  Since  that  was  evidently  quite  out  of  the 
question  she  was  resolved  to  go  to  the  other  extreme. 

"My  only  chance  is  to  be  a  mouse!"  she  thought. 

At  least  she  would  be  a  graceful  mouse. 

She  gazed  at  the  delicate  figures  on  her  Conder  fan.  They, 
those  three  a  little  way  from  her,  were  talking  now,  really 
talking. 

Mrs.  Mansfield  was  speaking  of  the  endeavor  of  certain 
Londoners  to  raise  the  theater  out  of  the  rut  into  which  it  had 
fallen,  and  to  make  of  it  something  worthy  to  claim  the  atten- 
tion of  those  who  did  not  use  it  merely  for  digestive  purposes. 
She  related  a  story  of  a  disastrous  theater-party  which  she  had 
once  joined,  and  which  had  been  arranged  by  an  aspiring 
woman  with  little  sense  of  fitness. 

"We  dined  with  her  first.  She  had,  somehow,  persuaded 
Burling,  the  Oxford  historian,  Mrs.  Hartford,  the  dear  poetess 
who  never  smiles,  and  her  husband,  and  Cummerbridge,  the 
statistician,  to  be  of  the  party.  After  dinner  where  do  you 
think  she  took  us?" 

"To  the  Oxford?"  said  Elliot,  flinging  his  hands  round  his 
knee  and  beginning  to  smile. 

"To  front  row  stalls  at  the  Criterion,  where  they  were 
giving  a  knockabout  farce  called  My  Little  Darling  in  which 
a  clergyman  was  put  into  a  boiler,  a  guardsman  hidden  in  a 
linen  cupboard,  and  a  penny  novelette  duchess  was  forced 
to  retreat  into  a  shower-bath  in  full  activity.  I  confess  that 
I  laughed  more  than  I  had  ever  done  in  my  life.  I  sat  between 
Burling,  who  looked  like  a  terrified  hen,  and  Mr.  Hartford, 


26         THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

who  was  seriously  attentive  from  beginning  to  end,  and  kept 
murmuring,  'Really!  Really!'  And  I  had  the  poetess's 
sibylline  profile  in  full  view.  I  was  almost  hysterical  when  it 
was  over.  As  we  were  coming  out  Mr.  Hartford  said  to  his 
wife,  'Henrietta,  I'm  glad  we  came.'  She  rolled  an  eye  on  him 
and  answered,  with  tears  in  the  voice, '  Why?'  ' It's  a  valuable 
lesson.  We  now  know  what  the  British  public  needs.'  Her 
reply  was  worthy  of  her." 

"What  was  it?"  said  Elliot,  eagerly. 

"  'There  are  many  human  needs,  Gabriel,  which  it  is 
criminal  to  gratify.'  Burling  went  home  in  a  four-wheeler. 
Cummerbridge  had  left  after  the  first  act — a  severe  attack  of 
neuralgia  in  the  right  eye." 

Elliot's  full-throated  laugh  rang  through  the  room.  Heath 
was  smiling,  but  almost  sadly,  Charmian  thought. 

"Perhaps  it  was  My  Little  Darling  which  brought  about 
the  attempt  at  better  things  you  were  speaking  of,"  he  said 
to  Mrs.  Mansfield. 

"Ah,  but  their  prophet  is  not  mine!"  she  answered. 

An  almost  feverish  look  of  vitality  had  come  into  her  face, 
which  was  faintly  pencilled  by  the  fingers  of  sorrow. 

"Sometimes  I  think  I  hate  the  disintegrating  drama  more 
than  I  despise  the  vulgar  idiocies  which,  after  all,  never  really 
touch  human  life,"  she  continued.  "No  doubt  it  is  sheer 
weakness  on  my  part  to  be  affected  by  it.  But  I  am.  Only 
last  week  Charmian  and  I  saw  the  play  that  they — the  superior 
ones — are  all  flocking  to.  The  Premier  has  seen  it  five  times 
already.  I  loathed  its  cleverness.  I  loathed  the  element  of 
surprise  in  it.  I  laughed,  and  loathed  my  own  laughter.  The 
man  who  wrote  it  would  put  cap  and  bells  on  St.  Francis  of 
Assisi  and  make  a  mock  of  CEdipus." 

She  paused,  then,  leaning  forward,  in  a  low  and  thrilling 
voice  she  quoted,  '"For  we  are  in  Thy  hand;  and  man's 
noblest  task  is  to  help  others  by  his  best  means  and  powers.'" 

Claude  Heath  gazed  at  her  while  she  was  speaking,  and  in 
his  eyes  Charmian,  glancing  over  her  fan,  saw  what  she  thought 
of  as  two  torches  gleaming. 

"I  came  out  of  the  theater,"  continued  Mrs.  Mansfield, 
"and  I  confess  it  with  shame,  feeling  as  if  I  should  never  find 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION          27 

again  the  incentive  to  a  noble  action,  as  if  the  world  were 
turned  to  chaff.  And  yet  I  had  laughed — how  I  had  laughed!" 

Suddenly  she  began  to  laugh  at  the  mere  recollection  of 
something  in  the  play. 

"The  wretch  is  terribly  clever!"  she  exclaimed.  "But  he 
seems  to  me  destructive." 

"Well,  but —  '  began  Elliot.  "Some  such  accusation  has 
been  brought  against  many  really  great  men.  The  Empress 
Frederick  told  a  friend  of  mine  that  no  one  who  had  not  lived 
in  Germany,  and  observed  German  life  closely,  could  under- 
stand the  evil  spread  through  the  country  by  Wagner's 
Tristan" 

"Then  the  fault,  the  sin  if  you  like,  was  in  the  hearers," 
said  Heath,  almost  with  excitement. 

He  got  up  and  stood  by  the  fire. 

"Wagner  was  a  builder.  I  believe  Germany  is  the  better 
for  a  Tristan,  and  I  believe  we  should  be  the  better  for  an 
English  Tristan.  But  I  doubt  if  we  gain  essentially  by  the 
drama  in  cap  and  bells." 

Elliot,  who  was  fond  of  defending  his  friends,  came  vigor- 
ously to  the  defense  of  the  playwright,  to  whom  he  was  devoted 
and  whose  first  nights  he  seldom  missed.  In  the  discussion 
which  followed  Charmian  saw  more  clearly  how  peculiarly  in 
tune  her  mother's  mind  was  with  Heath's. 

"This  is  the  beginning  of  a  great  intimacy,"  she  said  to 
herself.  "One  of  mother's  great  intimacies." 

And,  for  the  first  time  she  consciously  envied  her  mother, 
consciously  wished  that  she  had  her  mother's  brain's,  tempera- 
ment, and  unintentional  fascination.  The  talk  went  on,  and 
presently  she  drifted  into  it,  took  her  small  part  in  it.  But 
she  felt  herself  too  brainless,  too  ignorant  to  be  able  to  con- 
tribute to  it  anything  of  value.  Her  usually  happy  and 
innocent  self-conceit  has  deserted  her,  with  all  her  audacities. 
She  was  oddly  subdued,  was  almost  sad. 

"How  old  is  he  really?"  she  thought  more  than  once  as 
she  looked  at  Claude  Heath. 

There  was  no  mention  of  music,  and  at  last  Mrs.  Mansfield 
got  up  to  go. 

As  they  said  good- night  she  looked  at  Heath  and  remarked: 


28          THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

"We  shall  meet  again?" 

He  clasped  her  hand,  and  answered,  slightly  reddening: 

"Oh,  I  hope  so!    I  do  hope  so!" 

That  was  all.  There  was  no  mention  of  the  Red  Book,  of 
being  at  home  on  Thursdays,  no  "If  you're  ever  near  Berkeley 
Square,"  etc.  All  that  was  unnecessary.  Charmian  touched 
a  long-fingered  hand  and  uttered  a  cold  little  "  Good-night." 
A  minute  more  and  her  mother  and  she  were  in  the  motor 
gliding  through  damp  streets  in  the  murky  darkness. 

After  a  short  silence  Mrs.  Mansfield  said: 

"Well,  Charmian,  you  escaped!    Are  you  very  thankful?" 

"Escaped!"  said  a  rather  plaintive  voice  from  the  left- 
hand  corner  of  the  car. 

"The  dreaded  Te  Deum." 

"Is  he  a  musician  at  all?  I  believe  Max  Elliot  has  been 
humbugging  us." 

"He  warned  you  not  to  expect  too  much  in  the  way  of 
hair." 

"It  isn't  that.     How  old  do  you  think  he  is?" 

"  Certainly  not  thirty." 

"What  did  you  tell  him  about  me?" 

"About  you?    I  don't  remember  telling  him  anything." 

"Oh,  but  you  did,  mother!" 

"What  makes  you  think  so?" 

"I  know  you  did,  when  I  was  sitting  near  the  piano  with 
Max  Elliot." 

"Perhaps  I  did  then.  But  I  can't  remember  what  it  was. 
It  must  have  been  something  very  trifling." 

"Oh,  of  course  I  know  that!"  said  Charmian  almost  petu- 
lantly. 

Mrs.  Mansfield  realized  that  the  girl  had  not  enjoyed  her 
evening,  but  she  was  too  wise  to  ask  her  why.  Indeed  she 
was  not  much  given  to  the  putting  of  intimate  questions  to 
Charmian.  So  she  changed  the  subject  quietly,  and  they 
were  soon  at  home. 

Twelve  o'clock  was  striking  as  they  entered  the  house. 
The  evening,  Mrs.  Mansfield  thought,  had  passed  quickly. 
She  was  a  bad  sleeper,  and  seldom  went  to  bed  before  one,  but 
she  never  kept  a  maid  sitting  up  for  her. 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION          29 

"I'm  going  to  read  a  book,"  she  said  to  Charmian,  with  her 
hand  on  the  door  of  the  small  library  on  the  first  floor,  where 
she  usually  sat  when  she  was  alone. 

Charmian,  taller  than  she  was,  bent  a  little  and  kissed  her. 

"Wonderful  mother!" 

"What  nonsense  you  talk;  but  only  to  me,  I  know!" 

"Other  people  know  it  without  my  telling  them.  You 
jump  into  minds  and  hearts,  and  poor  little  I  remain  outside, 
squatting  like  a  hungry  child." 

"And  that  is  greater  nonsense  still.  Come  and  sit  up  with 
me  for  a  little." 

"No,  not  to-night,  you  darling!" 

Almost  with  violence  Charmian  kissed  her  again,  released 
her,  and  went  away  up  the  stairs  between  white  walls  to  bed. 


CHAPTER  IV 

CHARMIAN  had  been  right  when  she  had  said  to  her- 
self, "This  is  the  beginning  of  one  of  mother's  great 
intimacies." 

Claude  Heath  called  almost  at  once  in  Berkeley  Square; 
and  in  a  short  time  he  established  a  claim  to  be  one  of  Mrs. 
Mansfield's  close  friends.  She  had  several,  but  Heath  stood 
out  from  among  them.  There  was  a  special  bond  between  the 
white-haired  woman  of  forty-five  and  the  young  man  of  twenty- 
eight.  Perhaps  their  freemasonry  arose  from  the  fact  that  each 
held  tenaciously  a  secret:  Mrs.  Mansfield  her  persistent  devo- 
tion to  the  memory  of  her  dead  husband,  Heath  his  devotion 
to  his  art.  Perhaps  the  two  secrecies  in  some  mysterious  way 
recognized  each  other,  perhaps  the  two  reserves  clung  to- 
gether. 

These  two  in  silence  certainly  understood  each  one  some- 
thing in  the  other  that  was  hidden  from  the  gaze  of  the 
world. 

A  fact  in  connection  with  their  intimacy,  which  set  it  apart 
from  the  other  friendships  of  Mrs.  Mansfield,  was  this — 
Charmian  was  not  included  in  it. 

This  exclusion  was  not  owing  to  any  desire  of  the  mother. 
She  was  incapable  of  shutting  any  door,  beyond  which  she  did 
not  stand  alone,  against  her  child.  The  generosity  of  her 
nature  was  large,  warm,  chivalrous,  the  link  between  her 
and  Charmian  very  strong.  The  girl  was  wont  to  accept  her 
mother's  friends  with  a  pretty  eagerness.  They  spoiled  her, 
because  of  her  charm,  and  because  she  was  the  child  of  the 
house  in  which  they  spent  some  of  their  happiest  hours. 
Never  yet  had  there  lain  on  Charmian's  life  a  shadow  coming 
from  her  mother.  But  now  she  entered  a  faintly  shadowed 
way,  as  it  seemed  deliberately  and  of  her  own  will.  She 
tacitly  refused  to  accept  the  friendship  between  her  mother 
and  Claude  Heath  as  she  had  accepted  the  other  friendships. 

30 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION          31 

Gently,  subtly,  almost  mysteriously,  she  excluded  herself 
from  it. 

Or  was  she  gently,  subtly,  almost  mysteriously  excluded 
from  it  by  Claude  Heath? 

She  chose  to  think  so.  And  there  were  moments  in  which 
he  chose  to  think  that  she  obstinately  declined  to  accept  him 
as  her  mother  accepted  him,  because  she  disliked  him,  was 
perhaps  jealous  of  his  intimacy  with  Mrs.  Mansfield. 

All  this  was  below  the  surface.  Charmian  seemed  friendly 
with  Heath,  and  he,  generally,  at  ease  with  her.  But  when  he 
was  alone  with  Mrs.  Mansfield  he  was  a  different  man.  At 
first  she  thought  little  of  this.  She  attributed  it  to  the  fact 
that  Heath  had  a  reserved  nature  and  that  she  happened  to 
hold  a  key  which  could  unlock  it,  or  unlock  a  room  or  two  of  it, 
leaving,  perhaps,  many  rooms  closed.  But,  being  not  only  a 
very  intelligent  but  a  delicately  sensitive  woman,  she  presently 
began  to  think  that  there  was  some  secret  antagonism  between 
her  child  and  Heath. 

This  pained  her.  She  even  considered  whether  she  ought 
not  to  put  an  end  to  her  intimacy  with  Heath.  She  had  grown 
to  value  it.  She  was  incapable  of  entering  into  a  sentimental 
relation  with  any  man.  She  had  loved  deeply,  had  had  her 
beautiful  summer.  It  had  died.  The  autumn  was  upon  her. 
She  regretted.  Often  her  heart  was  by  a  grave,  often  it  was 
beyond,  seeking,  like  a  bird  with  spread  wings  above  dark 
seas  seeking  the  golden  clime  it  needs  and  instinctively  knows 
of.  But  she  did  not  repine.  And  she  was  able  to  fill  her  life, 
to  be  strongly  interested  in  people  and  in  events.  She  mel- 
lowed with  her  great  sorrow  instead  of  becoming  blunted  by  it 
or  withering  under  it.  And  so  she  drew  people  to  her,  and 
was  drawn,  in  her  turn,  to  them. 

Claude  Heath  had  brought  into  her  lif  e  something  her  other 
friends  had  not  given  her.  She  realized  this  clearly  when  she 
first  considered  Charmian  in  connection  with  herself  and  him. 
If  he  ceased  from  her  life,  sank  away  into  the  crowd  of  unseen 
men,  he  would  leave  a  gap  which  another  could  not  fill.  She 
had  a  feeling  that  she  was  valuable  to  him.  She  did  not  know 
exactly  how  or  why.  And  he  was  valuable  to  her. 

But  of  course  Charmian  was  the  first  interest  in  her  life, 


32          THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

had  the  first  claim  upon  her  consideration.  She  sat  wondering 
what  it  was  in  Heath  which  the  girl  disliked,  what  it  was  in 
Charmian  which,  perhaps,  troubled  or  irritated  Heath. 

Charmian  was  out  that  day  at  an  afternoon  concert,  and 
Mrs.  Mansfield  had  made  an  engagement  to  go  to  tea  with 
Heath  in  his  little  old  house  near  St.  Petersburg  Place.  She 
had  never  yet  visited  him,  although  she  had  known  him  for 
nearly  three  months.  And  she  had  never  heard  a  note  of  his 
music.  The  latter  fact  .did  not  strike  her  as  strange.  She 
had  never  mentioned  her  dead  husband  to  him. 

Max  Elliot  had  at  first  been  perturbed  by  this  reticence  of 
the  musician.  He  had  specially  wished  Mrs.  Mansfield  to  hear 
what  he  had  heard.  After  that  evening  in  Cadogan  Square 
he  had  several  times  asked:  "Well,  have  you  heard  the  Te 
Deum?"  or  "Has  Heath  played  any  of  his  compositions  to 
you  yet?"  To  Mrs.  Mansfield's  invariable  unembarrassed 
"No!"  he  gave  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders,  a  "He's  an  extra- 
ordinary fellow!"  or  a  "Well,  I've  made  a  failure  of  it  this 
time!"  Once  he  added:  "Don't  you  want  to  hear  his  music?" 
"  Not  unless  he  wants  me  to  hear  it,"  Mrs.  Mansfield  replied. 
Elliot  looked  at  her  for  a  minute  with  his  large,  prominent  and 
kind  eyes,  and  said:  "No  wonder  you're  adored  by  your 
friends!"  Several  times  since  the  evening  in  Cadogan  Square 
he  had  heard  Heath  play  his  compositions,  and  he  now  began 
to  feel  as  if  he  owed  this  pleasure  to  his  busy  and  almost  vulgar 
curiosity  about  musical  development  and  the  progress  of 
artists,  as  if  Heath's  reserve  were  his  greatest  proof  of  regard 
and  friendship.  He  had  not  succeeded  in  persuading  Heath 
to  come  to  one  of  his  Sunday  musical  evenings,  at  which  crowds 
of  people  in  society  and  many  artists  assembled.  Mrs. 
Mansfield  taught  him  not  to  attempt  any  more  persuasion. 
He  realized  that  his  first  instinct  had  been  right.  The  plant 
must  grow  in  darkness.  But  he  was  always  being  carried  away 
by  artistic  enthusiasms,  and  had  an  altruistic  desire  to  share 
good  things.  And  he  dearly  loved  "a  musical  find."  He  had 
a  certain  name  as  a  discoverer  of  talent,  and  there's  so  much  in 
a  name.  The  lives  that  have  been  changed,  moulded,  governed 
by  a  hastily  conferred  name! 

Mrs.  Mansfield  was  inclined  to  believe  that  Heath  had  in- 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION          33 

vited  her  to  tea  with  the  intention  of  at  last  submitting  his 
talent  to  her  opinion.  They  had  sometimes  talked  together 
of  music,  but  much  of  tener  of  books,  character,  people,  national 
movements,  topics  of  the  day.  As  she  went  to  her  bedroom 
to  dress  for  her  expedition,  she  felt  a  certain  hesitation,  almost 
a  disinclination  to  go.  To  go  was  to  draw  a  step  or  two  nearer 
to  Heath,  and  so,  perhaps,  to  retreat  a  step  or  two  from  her 
child.  To-day  the  fact  that  Charmian  and  Heath  did  not 
quite  "hit  it  off  together"  vexed  her  spirit,  and  the  slight 
mystery  of  their  relation  troubled  her.  As  she  went  down  to 
get  into  the  motor  she  was  half  inclined  to  speak  to  Heath  on 
the  subject.  She  was  quite  certain  that  she  would  not  speak 
to  Charmian. 

The  month  was  February,  and  by  the  time  Mrs.  Mansfield 
reached  Mullion  House  evening  was  falling.  A  large  motor 
was  drawn  up  in  front  of  the  house,  and  as  Mrs.  Mansfield's 
chauffeur  sounded  a  melodious  chord  the  figure  of  a  smartly 
dressed  woman  walked  across  the  pavement  and  stepped 
into  it.  After  an  instant  of  delay,  caused  by  this  woman's 
footman,  who  spoke  to  her  at  the  window,  the  car  moved  off 
and  disappeared  rapidly  in  the  gathering  darkness. 

"Was  that  Adelaide?"  Mrs.  Mansfield  asked  herself  as  she 
got  out. 

She  was  not  certain,  but  she  thought  the  passing  figure  had 
looked  like  Mrs.  Shiffney's. 

The  door  of  Mullion  House  stood  open,  held  by  a  thin 
woman  with  very  large  gray  eyes,  who  smiled  at  Mrs.  Mansfield 
and  made  a  slight  motion,  almost  as  if  she  mentally  dropped  a 
curtsey,  but  physically  refrained  out  of  respect  for  London 
ways. 

"Oh,  yes,  ma'am,  he  is  in!    He's  expecting  you." 

The  emphasis  on  the  last  word  was  marked.  Mrs.  Mans- 
field looked  at  this  woman,  toward  whom  at  once  she  felt 
friendly. 

"There's  some  here  and  there  that  would  bother  him  to 
death,  I'm  sure,  if  they  was  let!"  continued  the  woman, 
closing  the  little  front  door  gently.  "  But  it  will  be  a  pleasure 
to  him  to  see  you.  We  all  knows  that!" 

"I'm  very  glad  to  hear  it!"  responded  Mrs.  Mansfield, 

3 


34          THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

liking  this  unconventional  but  very  human  servant.  "Mr. 
Heath  has  spoken  of  my  coming,  then?" 

"I  should  think  so,  ma'am.   JThis  way,  if  you  please!" 

Mrs.  Searle,  Heath's  cook-housekeeper,  crossed  the  little 
dimly  lit  hall  and  walked  quickly  down  a  rather  long  and 
narrow  passage. 

"He's  in  the  studio,  ma'am,"  she  remarked  over  her  narrow 
shoulder,  sharply  turning  her  head.  "Fan  is  with  him." 

"Who's  Fan?     A  dog?" 

"My  little  girl,  ma'am." 

"Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon  1" 

"Not  knowing  you  were  there,  when  the  other  lady  went 
I  sends  her  in  to  him  for  company  as  he  wasn't  working. 
'Run,  Fan!'  says  I.  'Go  and  cheer  Mr.  Heath  up,  there's 
a  good  girl!'  I  says.  I  knows  very  well  there's  nothing  like 
a  child  to  put  you  right  after  you've  been  worried.  They're 
so  simple,  aren't  they,  ma'am?  And  we're  all  simple,  I  b'lieve, 
at  'eart,  though  we're  ashamed  to  show  it.  I'm  sure  I  don't 
know  why!" 

As  she  concluded  she  opened  a  door  and  ushered  Mrs.  Mans- 
field into  the  composer's  workroom. 

At  the  far  end  of  it,  in  a  flicker  of  firelight,  Mrs.  Mansfield 
saw  him  stooping  down  over  a  very  fair  and  Saxon-looking 
child  of  perhaps  three  years  old,  whose  head  was  thickly 
covered  with  short  yellow  hair  inclined  to  be  curly,  and  who 
was  dressed  in  a  white  frock  with  an  almost  artful  blue  bow  in 
the  front.  As  Mrs.  Mansfield  came  in  the  child  was  holding  up 
to  Heath  a  small  naked  doll  of  a  rather  blurred  appearance, 
and  was  uttering  some  explanatory  remarks  in  the  uneven  but 
arresting  voice  that  seems  peculiar  to  childhood. 

"Mrs.  Mansfield,  if  you  please,  sir!"  said  Mrs.  Searle. 
Then,  with  a  change  of  voice:  "Come  along,  Fan!  And  bring 
Masterman  with  you,  there's  a  good  girl!  We  must  get  on  his 
clothes  or  he'll  catch  cold."  (To  Mrs.  Mansfield.)  "You'll 
excuse  her,  ma'am,  but  she's  that  nat'ral,  clothes  or  no  clothes 
it's  all  one  to  her." 

Fan  turned  round,  holding  Masterman  by  one  leg  and 
staring  with  bright  blue  eyes  at  Mrs.  Mansfield.  Her  counte- 
nance expressed  a  dignified  inquiry  combined,  perhaps,  with  a 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION          35 

certain  amount  of  very  natural  surprise  at  so  unseemly  an 
interruption  of  her  strictly  private  interview  with  Claude 
Heath  and  Masterman.  Her  left  thumb  mechanically  sought 
the  shelter  of  her  mouth,  and  it  was  obvious  that  she  was 
"sizing  up"  Mrs.  Mansfield  with  all  the  caution,  if  not  sus- 
picion, of  the  female  nature  in  embryo. 

Heath  took  her  gently  by  the  shoulder  as  he  came  forward, 
smiling,  and  propelled  her  slowly  toward  the  middle  of  the 
large  dim  room. 

"Welcome!"  he  said,  holding  out  his  hand.  "Yes,  Fantail, 
I  quite  understand.  He's  been  sick  and  now  he's  getting 
better.  Go  with  mother!" 

Fan  was  exchanged  for  Mrs.  Mansfield  and  vanished, 
speaking  slowly  and  continuously  about  Masterman's  internal 
condition  and  "the  new  lydy,"  while  Mrs.  Mansfield  took  off 
her  fur  coat  and  looked  around  her  and  at  Heath. 

"I  didn't  kiss  her,"  she  said,  "because  I  think  it's  a  liberty 
to  kiss  one  of  God's  creatures  at  first  sight  without  a  special 
invitation." 

"I  know— I  know!" 

Heath  seemed  restless.  His  face  was  slightly  flushed,  and 
his  eyes,  always  full  of  a  peculiar  vitality,  looked  more  living 
even  than  usual.  He  glanced  at  Mrs.  Mansfield,  then  glanced 
away,  almost  guiltily,  she  thought. 

"Do  come  and  sit  down  by  the  fire.  Would  you  like  a 
cushion?" 

"No,  thank  you!    What  a  nice  old  settle!" 

"Yes,  isn't  it?  I  live  in  this  room.  Ailing,  the  painter, 
built  it  for  his  studio.  The  other  rooms  are  tiny." 

"What  a  delightful  servant  you  have!" 

"Mrs.  Searle — yes.  She's  a  treasure!  Humanity  breaks 
out  of  her  whatever  the  occasion.  And  my  goodness,  how 
she  understands  men!" 

He  laughed,  but  the  laugh  sounded  slightly  unnatural. 

"FantaiTs  delightful,  too!"  he  added. 

"What  is  her  real  name?" 

"Fanny.  I  call  her  Fantail."  He  paused.  "  Well,  because 
I  like  her,  I  suppose." 

"I  know." 


36          THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence,  in  which  Mrs.  Mansfield 
glanced  about  the  room.  Despite  its  size  it  was  cozy.  It 
looked  as  if  it  were  lived  in,  perpetually  and  intimately  used. 
There  was  nothing  in  it  that-was  very  handsome  or  very 
valuable,  except  a  fine  Stein  way  grand  pianoforte;  but  there 
was  nothing  ugly  or  vulgar.  And  there  were  quantities  of 
books,  not  covered  with  repellent  glass.  They  were  ranged  in 
dark  cases,  which  furnished  the  walls,  and  lay  everywhere  on 
tables,  among  magazines  and  papers,  scores  and  volumes  of 
songs  and  loose  manuscript  music.  The  piano  was  open,  and 
there  was  more  music  on  it.  The  armchairs  were  well  worn  but 
comfortable,  and  looked  "sat  in."  Over  the  windows  there 
were  dun  orange-colored  curtains  that  looked  old  but  not 
shabby.  On  the  floor  there  were  some  rather  good  and  very 
effective  Oriental  rugs.  The  only  flowers  in  the  room  were 
bright  yellow  tulips,  grouped  together  in  a  mass  on  an  oak 
table  a  long  way  from  the  fire.  Opposite  to  the  piano  there  was 
a  large  ebony  crucifix  mounted  on  a  stand,  and  so  placed  that 
anyone  seated  at  the  piano  faced  it.  The  room  was  lit  not 
strongly  by  oil  lamps  with  shades.  A  few  mysterious  oil 
paintings,  very  dark  in  color,  hung  on  the  walls  between  the 
bookcases.  Mrs.  Mansfield  could  not  discern  their  subjects. 
On  the  high  wooden  mantelpiece  there  were  a  few  photographs, 
of  professors  and  students  at  the  Royal  College  of  Music  and 
of  a  serious  and  innocent-looking  priest  in  black  coat  and  round 
white  collar. 

To  Mrs.  Mansfield  the  room  suggested  a  recluse  who  liked 
to  be  cosy,  who,  perhaps,  was  drawn  toward  mystery,  even 
mysticism,  and  who  loved  the  life  of  the  brain. 

"And  you've  a  garden?"  she  asked,  breaking  the  little 
pause. 

"The  size  of  a  large  pocket-handkerchief.  I'm  not  at  all 
rich,  you  know.  But  I  can  just  afford  my  little  house  and  to 
live  without  earning  a  penny." 

A  woman  servant,  not  Mrs.  Searle,  came  in  with  tea  and 
retreated,  walking  very  softly  and  slowly.  She  looked  almost 
rustic. 

"That's  my  only  other  servant,  Harriet,"  said  Heath, 
pouring  out  tea. 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION          37 

"There's  something  very  un-Londony  in  it  all,"  said  Mrs. 
Mansfield,  again  looking  round,  almost  with  a  puzzled  air. 

"That's  what  I  try  for.  I'm  fond  of  London  in  a  way,  but 
I  can't  bear  anything  typical  of  London  in  my  home." 

"It  is  quite  a  home,"  she  said;  "and  the  home  of  a  worker. 
One  gets  weary  of  being  received  in  reception-rooms.  This  is 
a  retreat." 

Heath  looked  at  her  with  his  bright  almost  too  searching 
and  observant  eyes. 

"I  wonder,"  he  said  almost  reluctantly,  "whether — may  I 
talk  about  myself  to-day?"  he  interrupted  himself. 

"  Do,  if  you  like  to." 

"I  think  I  should." 

"Do,  then." 

"I  wonder  whether  a  man  is  a  coward  to  raise  up  barriers 
between  himself  and  life,  whether  it  is  a  mistake  to  have  a 
retreat,  as  you  rightly  call  this  room,  this  house,  and  to  spend 
the  greater  part  of  one's  time  alone  in  it?  But" — he  moved 
restlessly — "the  real  question  is  whether  one  ought  to  let 
oneself  be  guided  by  a  powerful  instinct." 

"  I  expect  one  ought  to." 

"Do  you?    Oh,  you're  not  eating  anything!" 

"I  will  help  myself." 

"  Mrs.  Shiffney  wouldn't  agree  with  you." 

"No." 

"Didn't — didn't  you  see  her?  She  went  just  before  you 
came." 

"  I  saw  someone.  I  thought  it  might  be  Adelaide.  I  wasn't 
sure." 

"  It  was  she.  I  hadn't  asked  her  to  come  and  wasn't  expect- 
ing her." 

He  stopped,  then  added  abruptly: 

"It  was  wonderfully  kind  of  her  to  come,  though.  She  is 
kind  and  clever,  too.  She  has  fascination,  I  think.  .  .  . " 

"I'm  sure  she  has." 

"And  yet,  d'you  know,  there's  something  in  her,  and  in 
lots  of  people  I  might  get  to  know,  I  suppose,  through  her  and 
Max  Elliot,  that  I — well,  I  almost  hate  it." 

"What  is  it?" 


38         THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

"Well,  whenever  I  come  across  one  of  them  by  chance  I 
seem  to  hear  a  voice  repeating, '  To-morrow  we  die — to-morrow 
we  die — to-morrow  we  die/  And  I  seem  to  see  something 
inside  of  them  with  teeth  and  claws  fastening  on  pleasure. 
It's — it's  like  a  sort  of  minotaur,  and  it  gives  me  horrors.  And 
yet  I  might  go  to  it." 

Mrs.  Mansfield  said  nothing  for  a  moment.  She  had 
finished  her  cup  of  tea,  and  now,  with  a  little  gesture,  refused 
to  have  another. 

"  It's  quite  true.  There  is  the  creature  with  teeth  and  claws, 
and  it  is,  perhaps,  horrible.  But  it's  so  sad  that  I  scarcely 
see  anything  but  its  sadness." 

"You  are  kinder  than  I." 

He  leaned  forward. 

"D'you  know,  I  think  you're  the  kindest  human  being  I 
ever  met,  except  one,  that  priest  up  there  on  the  mantelpiece." 

"Forgive  me,"  she  said,  making  allowance  for  herself 
to-day  because  of  Heath's  evident  desire  to  talk  intimately,  a 
desire  which  she  believed  she  ought  to  help,  "but  are  you  a 
Roman  Catholic?" 

"Oh,  no!    I  wish  I  was!" 

"But  I  suppose  you  can't  be?" 

"Oh,  no!  I  suppose  I'm  one  of  those  unsatisfactory 
people  whose  soul  and  whose  brain  are  not  in  accord.  That 
doesn't  make  for  inward  calm  or  satisfaction.  But  I  can  only 
hope  for  better  days." 

There  was  something  uneasy  in  his  speech.  She  felt  the 
strong  reserve  in  him  always  fighting  against  the  almost  fierce 
wish  to  be  unreserved  with  her. 

"They  will  come,  surely!"  she  said.  "If  you  are  quite 
sincere,  sincere  with  yourself  always  and  sincere  with  others 
as  often  as  is  possible." 

"You're  right  about  its  not  being  possible  to  be  always 
sincere  with  others." 

She  smiled. 

"They  simply  wouldn't  let  you!" 

"No,"  he  said.  "I  feel  as  if  I  could  be  rather  sincere  with 
you  sometimes." 

"Specially  to-day,  perhaps." 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION          39 

"Yes,  I  think  so.     We  do  get  on,  don't  we?" 

"Yes,  we  do." 

"I  often  wonder  why.  But  we  do.  I'll  move  the  table 
if  you've  really  finished." 

He  put  the  table  away  and  sat  down  on  the  settle  beside 
her,  at  the  far  end.  And  he  turned,  leaning  his  back  against 
the  upright  end,  and  stretching  one  arm  along  the  wooden  top, 
on  which  his  long  fingers  restlessly  closed. 

"I  was  sorry  I  went  to  Max  Elliot's  till  you  came  into  the 
room,"  he  said.  "And  ever  since  then  I've  been  partly  very 
glad." 

"But  only  partly?" 

"Yes,  because  I've  always  had  an  instinctive  dread  of 
getting  drawn  in." 

"To  the  current  of  our  modern  art  life.  I'm  sure  you  mean 
that." 

"I  do.  And  of  course  Elliot  is  in  the  thick  of  it.  Mrs. 
Shiffney's  in  it,  and  all  her  lot,  which  I  don't  know.  And  that 
fellow  Lane  is  in  it  too." 

"And  I  suppose  I  am  in  it  with  Charmian." 

Heath  looked  at  the  floor.  Ignoring  Mrs.  Mansfield's 
remark,  he  continued: 

"I  have  some  talent.  It  isn't  the  sort  of  talent  to  win 
popularity.  Fortunately,  I  don't  desire — in  fact,  I'm  very 
much  afraid  of  popularity.  But  as  I  believe  my  talent  is — is 
rather  peculiar,  individual,  it  might  easily  become — well,  I 
suppose  I  may  say  the  rage  in  a  certain  set.  They  might 
drop  me  very  soon.  Probably  they  would — I  don't  know. 
But  I  have  a  strong  feeling  that  they'd  take  me  up  violently 
if  I  gave  them  a  chance.  That's  what  Max  Elliot  can't  help 
wanting.  He's  such  a  good  fellow,  but  he's  a  born  exploiter. 
Not  in  any  nasty  way,  of  course!"  Heath  concluded  hastily. 

"I  quite  understand." 

"And,  I  don't  want  to  seem  conceited,  but  I  see  there's 
something  about  me  that  set  would  probably  like.  Mrs. 
Shiffney's  showed  me  that.  I  have  never  called  upon  her. 
She  has  sent  me  several  invitations.  And  to-day  she  called. 
She  wants  me  to  go  with  her  on  The  Wanderer  for  a  cruise." 

"To  Wonderland?" 


40         THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

Heath  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"In  the  Mediterranean,  I  believe." 

"Doesn't  that  tempt  you?" 

"Yes,  terribly.  But  I  flatly  refused  to  go.  But  she  knew 
I  was  tempted.  It's  only  curiosity  on  her  part,"  he  added, 
with  a  sort  of  hot,  angry  boyishness.  "She  can't  make  me 
out,  and  I  didn't  call.  That's  why  she  asked  me." 

Mrs.  Mansfield  mentally  added  a  "partly"  to  the  last 
sentence. 

"You're  very  much  afraid  of  exposing  yourself — or  is  it 
your  talent? — to  the  influence  of  what  we  may  as  well  call 
the  world,"  she  said. 

"I  suppose  one's  talent  is  oneself,  one's  best  self." 

"  Perhaps  so.  I  have  none.  You  know  best  about  that. 
I  expect  you  are  right  in  being  afraid." 

"You  don't  think  I'm  merely  a  rather  absurd  coward  and 
egoist?" 

"Oh,  no!  But  some  people — many,  I  think — would  say 
a  talent  is  meant  to  be  used,  to  be  given  to  the  light." 

"I  know.  But  I  don't  think  the  modern  world  wants  mine. 
I"- — he  reddened — "I  always  set  words  from  the  Bible  nearly 
or  from  the  Prayer-Book." 

Smiling  a  little,  as  if  saving  something  by  humor,  he 
added: 

"Not  the  Song  of  Solomon." 

"But  don't  the  English—" 

He  stopped  her. 

"Good  heavens!  I  know  you  are  thinking  of  the  Handel 
Festival  and  Elijah  in  the  provinces!"  he  exclaimed.  "I 
know  you  are!" 

She  laughed. 

"I  should  like  to  play  you  one  or  two  of  my  things,"  he  said 
impulsively.  "Then  you'll  see  at  once." 

He  went  toward  the  piano.  She  sat  still.  She  was  with 
the  striking  unreserve  of  the  reserved  man  when  he  has  cast 
his  protector  or  his  demon  away.  With  his  back  to  her  Heath 
turned  over  some  music,  moved  a  pile  of  sheets,  set  them  down 
on  the  floor  under  the  piano,  searched. 

"Oh,  here  it  is!" 


;TH1S  IS  THE  LAST  THING  I'VE  DONE  ' "— Page  41 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION          41 

He  grasped  some  manuscript,  put  it  on  the  music-stand, 
and  sat  down. 

"This  is  the  last  thing  I've  done.  The  words  are  taken 
from  the  sixteenth  chapter  of  Revelation — 'And  I  heard  a 
great  voice  out  of  the  temple  saying  to  the  seven  angels,  "  Go 
your  ways,  and  pour  out  the  vials  of  the  wrath  of  God  upon  the 
earth."  '  And  so  on." 

With  a  sort  of  anger  his  hands  descended  and  struck  the 
keys.  Speaking  through  his  music  he  gave  Mrs.  Mansfield 
indications  of  what  it  was  expressing. 

"This  is  the  sea.  'The  second  angel  poured  out  his  vial 
upon  the  sea,  and  it  became  as  the  blood  of  a  dead  man.  .  .  . 
The  fourth  angel  poured  out  his  vial  upon  the  sun,  and  power 
was  given  unto  him  to  scorch  men  with  fire.  .  .  .  The  sixth 
angel  poured  out  his  vial  upon  the  great  River  Euphrates,  and 
the  water  thereof  was  dried  up,  that  the  way  of  the  Kings  of 
the  East  might  be  prepared.'  ' 

The  last  words  which  Heath  had  set  were  those  in  the 
fifteenth  verse  of  the  chapter — "Behold,  I  come  as  a  thief. 
Blessed  is  he  that  watcheth  and  keepeth  his  garments  lest  he 
walk  naked  and  they  see  his  shame." 

When  he  had  finished  he  got  up  from  the  piano  with  a 
flushed  face  and,  again  speaking  in  a  boyish  and  almost  naive 
manner,  said  quickly: 

"There,  that  gives  you  an  idea  of  the  sort  of  thing  I  do  and 
care  about  doing.  For,  of  course,  I  never  will  attempt  any 
subject  that  doesn't  thoroughly  interest  me." 

He  stood  for  a  moment,  not  looking  toward  Mrs.  Mansfield; 
then,  as  if  struggling  against  an  inward  reluctance,  he  again 
sat  down  on  the  settle. 

"Have  you  orchestrated  it?"  she  asked. 

"Yes.    I've  just  finished  the  orchestration." 

"Surely  you  want  to  hear  it  given  with  voices  and  the 
orchestra?  Frankly,  I  won't  believe  you  if  you  say  you  don't." 

"I  do." 

The  reluctance  seemed  to  fade  out  of  him. 

"The  fact  is  I'm  torn  between  the  desire  to  hear  my  things 
and  a  mighty  distaste  for  publicity.'/ 

He  sprang  up. 


42          THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

"If  you'll  allow  me  I'll  just  give  you  an  idea  of  my  Te 
Deum.  And  then  I'll  have  done." 

He  went  once  more  to  the  piano. 

When  he  was  sitting  beside  her  again  Mrs.  Mansfield  felt 
shy  of  him.  After  a  moment  she  said: 

"You  are  sincere  in  your  music?" 

"Yes." 

He  did  not  seem  specially  anxious  to  get  at  her  exact  opinion 
of  his  work,  and  this  fact,  she  scarcely  knew  why,  pleased 
Mrs.  Mansfield. 

"I  had  two  or  three  things  done  at  the  College  concerts," 
Heath  continued.  "I  don't  think  they  were  much  liked. 
They  were  considered  very  clever  technically.  But  what's 
that?  Of  course,  one  must  conquer  one's  means  or  one  can't 
express  oneself  at  all." 

"And  now  you  work  quite  alone?" 

"Yes.  I've  got  just  a  thousand  a  year  of  my  own,"  he 
said  abruptly. 

"You  are  independent,  then." 

"Yes.  It  isn't  a  great  deal.  Of  course,  I  quite  realize 
that  the  sort  of  thing  I  do  could  never  bring  in  a  penny  of 
money.  So  I've  no  money  temptation  to  resist  in  keeping 
quiet.  There  isn't  a  penny  in  my  compositions.  I  know 
that." 

Mrs.  Mansfield  thought,  "If  he  were  to  get  a  mystical 
libretto  and  write  an  opera!"  But  she  did  not  say  it.  She 
felt  that  she  would  not  care  to  suggest  anything  to  Heath  which 
might  indicate  a  desire  on  her  part  to  see  him  "  a  success."  In 
her  ears  were  perpetually  sounding  the  words,  "and  the  water 
thereof  was  dried  up,  that  the  way  of  the  Kings  of  the  East 
might  be  prepared."  They  took  her  away  from  London. 
They  set  her  in  the  midst  of  a  great  strangeness.  They  even 
awoke  in  her  an  almost  riotous  feeling  of  desire.  What  she 
desired  she  could  not  have  said  exactly.  Some  form  of  happi- 
ness, that  was  all  she  knew.  But  how  the  thought  of  happiness 
stung  her  soul  at  that  moment!  She  looked  at  Heath  and  said: 

"I  quite  understand  about  Mrs.  Shiffney  now." 

"Yes?" 

"You  have  the  dangerous  gift  of  a  very  peculiar  and  very 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION          43 

powerful  imagination.  I  think  your  music  might  make  you 
enemies." 

Heath  looked  pleased. 

"I'm  glad  you  think  that.  I  know  exactly  what  you 
mean." 

They  sat  together  on  the  settle  and  talked  for  more  than  an 
hour.  Mrs.  Mansfield's  feeling  of  shyness  speedily  vanished, 
was  replaced  by  something  maternal  with  which  she  was  much 
more  at  ease. 

Mrs.  Searle  let  her  out.  She  had  said  good-bye  to  Heath  in 
the  studio  and  asked  him  not  to  come  to  the  front  door. 

"Good-night,  Mrs.  Searle!"  she  said,  with  a  smile.  "I 
hope  I  haven't  stayed  too  long?" 

"No,  indeed,  ma'am.  I'm  sure  you'd  ado  him  good.  He 
do  like  them  that's  nat'ral.  But  he  don't  like  to  be  bothered. 
And  there's  people  that  do  keep  on,  ma'am,  isn't  there?" 

"I  daresay  there  are." 

"  Specially  with  a  young  gentleman,  ma'am.  I  always  do 
say  it's  the  women  runs  after  the  men.  More  shame  to  us, 
ma'am." 

"Has  Fan  begun  yet?" 

Mrs.  Searle  blushed. 

"Well,  ma'am,  really  I  don't  know.  But  she's  awfully 
put  out  if  anyone  interrupts  her  when  she's  with  Mr.  Heath." 

"I  must  take  care  what  I'm  about." 

"Oh,  ma'am,  I'm  sure — " 

The  motor  moved  away  from  the  little  old  house.  As 
Mrs.  Mansfield  looked  out  she  saw  a  faint  gleam  in  the  studio. 
Involuntarily  she  listened,  almost  strained  her  ears.  And 
she  murmured,  "And  the  water  thereof  was  dried  up,  that  the 
way  of  the  Kings  of  the  East  might  be  prepared." 

The  gleam  was  lost  in  the  night.  She  leaned  back  and 
found  herself  wondering  what  Charmian  would  have  thought 
of  the  music  she  had  just  heard. 


CHAPTER  V 

MRS.  SHIFFNEY  had  more  money  than  she  knew  how  to 
spend,  although  she  was  recklessly  extravagant.  Her 
mother,  who  was  dead,  had  been  an  Austrian  Jewess, 
and  from  her  had  come  the  greater  part  of  Mrs.  Shiffney's 
large  personal  fortune.  Her  father,  Sir  Willy  Manning,  was 
still  alive,  and  was  a  highly  cultivated  and  intelligent  English- 
man of  the  cosmopolitan  type;  Mrs.  Shiffney  derived  her 
peculiar  and  attractive  look  of  high  breeding  and  her  com- 
pletely natural  manner  from  him.  From  her  mother  she  had 
received  the  nomadic  instinct  which  kept  her  perpetually 
restless,  and  which  often  drove  her  about  the  world  in  search 
of  the  change  and  diversion  which  never  satisfied  her.  Lady 
Manning  had  been  a  feverish  traveller  and  had  written  several 
careless  and  clever  books  of  description.  She  had  died  of  a 
fever  in  Hong-Kong  while  her  husband  was  in  Scotland. 
Although  apparently  of  an  unreserved  nature,  he  had  never 
bemoaned  her  loss. 

Mrs.  Shiffney  had  a  husband,  a  lenient  man  who  loved 
comfort  and  who  was  fond  of  his  wife  in  an  altruistic  way. 
She  and  he  got  on  excellently  when  they  were  together  and 
quite  admirably  when  they  were  parted,  as  they  very  often 
were,  for  yachting  made  Mr.  Shiffney  feel  "remarkably  cheap." 
As  he  much  preferred  to  feel  expensive  he  had  nothing  to  do 
with  The  Wanderer  unless  she  lay  snug  in  harbor.  His 
hobby  was  racing.  He  was  a  good  horseman,  disliked  golf, 
and  seldom  went  out  of  the  British  Isles,  though  he 
never  said  that  his  own  country  was  good  enough  for  him. 
When  he  did  cross  the  Channel  he  visited  Paris,  Monte 
Carlo,  Homburg,  Biarritz,  or  some  place  where  he  was  certain 
to  be  in  the  midst  of  his  "pals."  The  strain  of  wildness, 
which  made  his  wife  uncommon  and  interesting,  did  not 
exist  in  him,  but  he  was  rather  proud  of  it  in  her,  and  had 
been  heard  to  say  more  than  once,  "  Addie's  a  regular  gipsy," 

44 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION          45 

as  if  the  statement  were  a  high  compliment.  He  was  a 
'tall,  well-built,  handsome  man  of  fifty-two,  with  gray  hair 
and  moustache,  an  agreeable  tenor  voice,  which  was  never 
used  in  singing,  and  the  best-cut  clothes  in  London.  Although 
easily  kind  he  was  thoroughly  selfish.  Everybody  had  a 
good  word  for  him,  and  nobody,  who  really  knew  him,  ever 
asked  him  to  perform  an  unselfish  action.  "That  isn't 
Jimmy's  line"  was  their  restraining  thought  if  they  had  for  a 
moment  contemplated  suggesting  to  Mr.  Shiffney  that  he  might 
perhaps  put  himself  out  for  a  friend.  And  Jimmy  was  quite 
of  their  opinion,  and  always  stuck  to  his  "line,"  like  a  sensible 
fellow. 

Two  or  three  days  after  Mrs.  Shiffney's  visit  to  Claude 
Heath  her  husband,  late  one  afternoon,  found  her  in  tears. 

"What's  up,  Addie?"  he  asked,  with  the  sympathy  he 
never  withheld  from  her.  "Another  gown  gone  wrong?" 

Mrs.  Shiffney  shook  her  powerful  head,  on  which  was  a 
marvellous  black  hat  crowned  with  a  sort  of  factory  chimney 
of  stiff  black  plumes. 

Mr.  Shiffney  lit  a  cigar. 

"Poor  old  Addie!"  he  said.  He  leaned  down  and  stroked 
her  shoulder.  "I  wish  you  could  get  hold  of  somebody  or 
something  that'd  make  you  happy,"  he  remarked.  "I'm 
sure  you  deserve  it." 

His  wife  dried  her  tears  and  sniffed  two  or  three  times 
almost  with  the  frankness  of  a  grief-stricken  child. 

"I  never  shall!" 

"Why  not,  Addie?" 

"There's  something  in  me — I  don't  know!  I  should  get 
tired  of  anyone  who  didn't  get  tired  of  me!" 

She  almost  began  to  cry  again,  and  added  despairingly: 

"  So  what  hope  is  there?  And  I  do  so  want  to  enjoy  myself! 
I  wonder  if  there  ever  has  been  a  woman  who  wanted  to  enjoy 
herself  as  much  as  I  do?" 

Mr.  Shiffney  blew  forth  a  cloud  of  smoke,  extending  the 
little  finger  of  the  hand  which  held  his  cigar. 

"We  all  want  to  have  a  good  time,"  he  observed.  "A 
first-rate  time.  What  else  are  we  here  for?" 

He  spoke  seriously. 


46          THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

"We  are  here  to  keep  things  going,  I  s'pose — to  keep  it 
up,  don't  you  know?  We  mustn't  let  it  run  down.  But  if 
we  don't  enjoy  ourselves  down  it  goes.  And  that  doesn't  do, 
does  it?" 

He  flicked  the  ash  from  his  cigar. 

"What's  the  special  row  this  time?"  he  continued,  without 
any  heated  curiosity,  but  with  distinct  sympathy. 

Mrs.  Shiffney  looked  slightly  more  cheerful.  She  enjoyed 
telling  things  if  the  things  were  closely  connected  with  herself. 

"Well,  I  want  to  start  for  a  cruise,"  she  began.  "I  can't 
remain  for  ever  glued  to  Grosvenor  Square.  I  must  move 
about  and  see  something." 

She  had  just  been  for  a  month  in  Paris. 

"  Of  course.     What  are  we  here  for?"  observed  her  husband. 

"You  always  understand!    Sit  down,  you  old  thing!" 

Mr.  Shiffney  sat  down,  gently  pulling  up  his  trousers. 

"And  the  row  is,"  she  continued,  shaking  her  shoulders, 
"that  I  want  Claude  Heath  to  come  and  he  won't.  And, 
since  he  won't,  he's  really  the  only  living  man  I  want  to  have 
on  the  cruise." 

"Who  is  he?"  observed  Mr.  Shiffney.  "I've  never  heard 
of  him.  Is  he  one  of  your  special  pals?" 

"Not  yet.  I  met  him  at  Max's.  He's  a  composer,  and  I 
want  to  know  what  he's  like." 

"I  expect  he's  like  all  the  rest." 

"No,  he  isn't!"  she  observed  decisively. 

"Why  won't  he  come?    Perhaps  he's  a  bad  sailor." 

"He  didn't  even  trouble  himself  to  say  that.  He  was  in 
such  a  hurry  to  refuse  that  he  didn't  bother  about  an  excuse. 
And  this  afternoon  he  called,  when  I  was  in,  and  never  asked 
for  me,  only  left  cards  and  bolted,  although  I  had  been  to  his 
house  to  ask  him  to  come  on  The  Wanderer." 

"Afraid  of  you,  is  he?" 

"I  don't  know,  I'm  sure.     He's  never  been  among  us" 

"Poor  chap!  But  surely  that's  a  reason  for  him  to  want 
to  get  in?" 

"Wouldn't  you  think  so?  Wouldn't  anyone  think  so? 
The  way  I'm  bombarded!  But  he  seems  only  anxious  to 
keep  out  of  everything." 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION          47 

"A  pose  very  likely." 

"I  don't  believe  it  is." 

"I  leave  it  to  you.  No  one  sharper  in  London.  Is  he  a 
gentleman — all  that  sort  of  thing?" 

"Oh,  of  course!" 

Mr.  Shiffney  pulled  up  his  trousers  a  little  more,  exposing 
a  pair  of  striped  silk  socks  which  emerged  from  shining  boots 
protected  by  white  spats. 

"To  be  sure.  If  he  hadn't  been  he'd  have  jumped  at  you 
and  The  Wanderer." 

"Naturally.  I  shan't  go  at  all  now!  What  an  unlucky 
woman  I  always  am!" 

"You  never  let  anyone  know  it." 

"Well,  Jimmy,  I'm  not  quite  a  fool.  Be  down  on  your 
luck  and  not  a  soul  will  stay  near  you." 

"I  should  think  not.  Why  should  they?  One  wants  a 
bit  of  life,  not  to  hear  people  howling  and  groaning  all  about 
one.  It's  awful  to  be  with  anyone  who's  under  the  weather." 

"Ghastly!  I  can't  stand  it!  But,  all  the  same,  it's  a  fear- 
ful coroee  to  keep  it  up  when  you're  persecuted  as  I  am." 

"Poor  old  Addie!" 

Mr.  Shiffney  threw  his  cigar  into  the  grate  reflectively  and 
lightly  touched  his  moustaches,  which  were  turned  upward, 
but  not  in  a  military  manner. 

"Things  never  seem  quite  right  for  you,"  he  continued. 

"And  other  women  have  such  a  splendid  time!"  she  ex- 
claimed. "The  disgusting  thing  is  that  he  goes  all  the  while 
to  Violet  Mansfield." 

"  She's  dull  enough  and  quite  old  too." 

"No,  she  isn't  dull.    You're  wrong  there." 

"I  daresay.    She  doesn't  amuse  me." 

"She's  not  your  sort." 

"Too  feverish,  too  keen,  brainy  in  the  wrong  way.  I  like 
brains,  mind  you,  and  I  know  where  they  are.  But  I  don't 
see  the  fun  of  having  them  jumped  at  one." 

"He  does,  apparently,  unless  it's  really  Charmian." 

"The  girl?  She's  not  bad.  Wants  to  be  much  cleverer 
than  she  is,  of  course,  like  pretty  nearly  all  the  girls,  except 
the  sporting  lot;  but  not  bad." 


48          THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

"Jimmy" — Mrs.  Shiffney's  eyes  began  once  more  to  look 
audacious — "shall  I  ask  Charmian  Mansfield  to  come  on  the 
yacht?" 

"You  think  that  might  bring~him?  Why  not  ask  both 
of  them?" 

"No;  I  won't  have  the  mother!" 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  I  won't!" 

"The  best  of  reasons,  too." 

"You  understand  us  better  than  any  man  in  London." 

She  sat  reflecting.     She  was  beginning  to  look  quite  cheerful. 

"It  would  be  rather  fun,"  she  resumed,  after  a  minute. 
"  Charmian  Mansfield,  Max — if  he  can  get  away — Paul  Lane. 
It  isn't  the  party  I'd  thought  of,  but  still—" 

"Which  of  them  were  you  going  to  take?" 

"Never  mind." 

"I  don't.    And  where  did  you  mean  to  go?" 

"I  told  him  to  the  Mediterranean." 

"But  it  wasn't!" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know!  Where  can  one  go?  That's  another 
thing.  It's  always  the  same  old  places,  unless  one  has  months 
to  spare,  and  then  one  gets  bored  with  the  people  one's  asked. 
Things  are  so  difficult." 

"One  place  is  very  much  like  another." 

"To  you.  But  I  always  hope  for  an  adventure  round  the 
corner." 

"I've  been  round  a  lot  of  corners  in  my  tune,  but  I  might 
almost  as  well  have  stuck  to  the  club." 

"Of  course  you  might!" 

She  got  up. 

"I  must  think  about  Charmian,"  she  said,  as  she  went 
casually  out  of  the  room. 

Mrs.  Shiffney  turned  the  new  idea  over  and  over  in  her 
restless  mind,  which  was  always  at  work  in  a  desultory  but 
often  clever  way.  She  could  not  help  being  clever.  She  had 
never  studied,  never  applied  herself,  never  consciously  tried  to 
master  anything,  but  she  was  quick-witted,  had  always  lived 
among  brilliant  and  highly  cultivated  people,  had  seen  every- 
thing, been  everywhere,  known  everyone,  looked  into  all  the 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION          49 

books  that  had  been  talked  about,  cast  at  least  a  glance  at  all 
the  pictures  which  had  made  any  stir.  And  she  gathered 
impressions  swiftly,  and,  moreover,  had  a  natural  flair  for  all 
that  was  first-rate,  original,  or  strange.  As  she  was  quite 
independent  in  mind,  and  always  took  her  own  line,  she  had 
become  an  arbiter,  a  leader  of  taste.  What  she  liked  soon 
became  liked  in  London  and  Paris  throughout  a  large  circle. 
Unfortunately,  she  was  changeable  and  apt  to  be  governed  by 
personal  feeling  in  matters  connected  with  art.  When  she 
cast  away  an  artist  she  generally  cast  away  his  art  with  him. 
If  it  was  first-rate  she  did  not  condemn  it  as  bad.  She  con- 
tented herself  with  saying  that  she  was  "  sick  of  it."  And  very 
soon  a  great  many  of  her  friends,  and  their  friends,  were  sick 
of  it,  too.  She  was  a  quicksand  because  she  was  a  singularly 
complete  egoist.  But  very  few  people  who  met  her  failed  to 
come  under  the  spell  of  her  careless  charm,  and  many,  because 
she  had  much  impulse,  swore  that  she  had  a  large  heart. 
Only  to  her  husband,  and  occasionally,  in  a  fit  of  passion, 
to  someone  who  she  thought  had  treated  her  badly,  did  she 
show  a  lachrymose  side  of  her  nature.  She  was  noted  for  her 
gaiety  and  joie  de  vivre  and  for  the  energy  with  which  she  pur- 
sued enjoyment.  Her  cynicism  did  not  cut  deep,  her  irony 
was  seldom  poisoned.  She  spoke  well  of  people,  and  was 
generous  with  her  money.  With  her  time  she  was  less  gener- 
ous. She  was  not  of  those  who  are  charitable  with  their  golden 
hours.  "I  can't  be  bothered!"  was  the  motto  of  her  life. 
And  wise  people  did  not  bother  her. 

She  had  seen  that,  for  a  moment,  Claude  Heath  had  been 
tempted  by  the  invitation  to  the  cruise.  A  sudden  light  had 
gleamed  in  his  eyes,  and  her  swift  apprehension  had  gathered 
something  of  what  was  passing  in  his  imagination.  But  almost 
immediately  the  light  had  vanished  and  the  quick  refusal  had 
come.  And  she  knew  that  it  was  a  refusal  which  she  could  not 
persuade  him  to  cancel  unless  she  called  someone  to  her  assist- 
ance. His  austerity,  which  attracted  her  whimsical  and 
unscrupulous  nature,  fought  something  else  in  him  and  con- 
quered. But  the  something  else,  if  it  could  be  revived,  given 
new  strength,  would  make  a  cruise  with  him,  even  to  all  the 
old  places,  quite  interesting,  Mrs.  Shiffney  thought.  And 


50          THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

any  refusal  always  made  her  greedy  and  obstinate.  "I  will 
have  it!"  was  the  natural  reply  of  her  nature  to  any  "You 
can't  have  it!" 

She  often  acted  impulsively,  hurried  by  caprices  and  desires, 
and  that  same  evening  she  sent  the  following  note  to  Charmian: 

GROSVENOR  SQUARE, 

Thursday. 

DEAR  CHARMIAN, — You've  never  been  on  the  yacht,  though 
I've  always  been  dying  to  have  you  come.  I've  been  glued 
to  London  for  quite  a  time,  and  am  getting  sick  of  it.  Aren't 
you?  Always  the  same  things  and  people.  I  feel  I  must 
run  away  if  I  can  get  up  a  pleasant  party  to  elope  with  me. 
Will  you  be  one?  I  thought  of  starting  some  time  next  month 
on  The  Wanderer  for  a  cruise,  to  the  Mediterranean  or  some- 
where. I  don't  know  yet  who'll  tuck  in,  but  I  shall  take 
Susan  Fleet  to  play  chaperon  to  us  and  the  crew  and  manage 
things.  Max  Elliot  may  come,  and  I  thought  of  trying  to  get 
your  friend,  Mr.  Heath,  though  I  hardly  know  him.  I  think 
he  works  too  hard,  and  a  breeze  might  do  him  good.  However, 
it's  all  in  the  air.  Tell  me  what  you  think  about  it.  Love 
to  the  beautiful  mother. — In  tearing  haste,  Yours, 

ADELAIDE  SHIFFNEY. 

"Why  has  she  asked  me?"  said  Charmian  to  herself,  laying 
this  note  down  after  reading  it  twice. 

She  had  always  known  Mrs.  Shiffney,  but  she  had  never 
before  been  asked  to  go  on  a  cruise  in  the  yacht.  Mrs.  Shiffney 
had  always  called  her  Charmian,  as  she  called  Mrs.  Mansfield 
Violet.  But  there  had  never  been  even  a  hint  of  genuine 
intimacy  between  the  girl  and  the  married  woman,  and  they 
seldom  met  except  in  society,  and  then  only  spoke  a  few  casual 
and  unmeaning  words.  They  had  little  in  common,  Charmian 
supposed,  except  their  mutual  knowledge  of  quantities  of 
people  and  of  a  certain  social  life. 

Claude  Heath  on  The  Wanderer/ 

Charmian  took  the  note  to  her  mother. 

"Mrs.  Shiffney  has  suddenly  taken  a  fancy  to  me,  Mad- 
retta,"  she  said.  "Look  at  this!" 

Mrs.  Mansfield  read  the  note  and  gave  it  back. 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION          51 

"Do  you  want  to  go?"  she  asked,  looking  at  the  girl,  not 
without  a  still  curiosity. 

Charmian  twisted  her  lips. 

"I  don't  know.  You  see,  it's  all  very  vague.  I  should 
like  to  be  sure  who's  going.  I  think  it's  very  reckless  to  take 
any  chances  on  a  yacht." 

"Claude  Heath  isn't  going." 

Charmian  raised  her  eyebrows. 

"But  has  she  asked  him?" 

"Yes.    And  he's  refused.     He  told  me  so  on  Monday." 

"You're  quite  sure  he  won't  go?" 

"He  said  he  wasn't  going." 

Charmian  looked  lightly  doubtful. 

"  Shall  I  go?"  she  said.    "  Would  you  mind  if  I  did?" 

"Do  you  really  want  to?" 

"I  don't  think  I  care  much  either  way.  Why  has  she 
asked  me?" 

"Adelaide?  I  daresay  she  likes  you.  And  you  wouldn't 
be  unpleasant  on  a  yacht,  would  you?" 

"That  depends,  I  expect.     You'd  allow  me  to  go?" 

"  If  I  knew  who  the  rest  of  the  party  were  to  be — definitely." 

"I  won't  answer  till  to-morrow." 

Mrs.  Mansfield  did  not  feel  sure  what  was  Chairman's  desire 
in  the  matter.  She  did  not  quite  understand  her  child.  She 
wondered,  too,  why  Mrs.  Shiffney  had  asked  Charmian  to  go  on 
the  yacht,  why  she  implied  that  Claude  Heath  might  make  one 
of  the  party  when  he  had  refused  to  go.  It  occurred  to  Mrs. 
Mansfield  that  Adelaide  might  mean  to  use  Charmian  as  a  lure 
to  draw  Heath  into  the  expedition.  But,  if  so,  surely  she  quite 
misunderstood  the  acquaintanceship  between  them.  Heath 
was  her — Mrs.  Mansfield's — friend.  How  often  she  had  wished 
that  Charmian  and  he  were  more  at  ease  together,  liked  each 
other  better.  It  was  odd  that  Adelaide  should  fall  into  such  a 
mistake.  And  yet  what  other  meaning  could  her  note  have? 
She  wrote  as  if  the  question  of  Heath's  going  or  not  were 
undecided. 

Was  it  undecided?  Did  Adelaide,  with  her  piercing  and 
clever  eyes,  see  more  clearly  into  Heath's  nature  than  Mrs. 
Mansfield  could? 


52          THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

Mrs.  Shiffney  had  an  extraordinary  capacity  for  getting 
what  she  wanted.  The  hidden  tragedy  of  her  existence  was 
that  she  was  never  satisfied  with  what  she  got.  She  wanted  to 
draw  Claude  Heath  out  of  his  "retirement  into  the  big  current 
of  life  by  which  she  and  her  friends  were  buoyantly  carried 
along  through  changing  and  brilliant  scenes.  His  refusal  had 
no  doubt  hardened  a  mere  caprice  into  a  strong  desire.  Mrs. 
Mansfield  realized  that  Adelaide  would  not  leave  Heath  alone 
now.  The  note  to  Charmian  showed  an  intention  not  aban- 
doned. But  why  should  Adelaide  suppose  that  Heath's  ac- 
ceptance might  be  dependent  on  anything  done  by  Charmian  ? 

Mrs.  Mansfield  knew  well,  and  respected,  Mrs.  Shiffney's 
haphazard  cleverness,  which,  in  matters  connected  with  the 
worldly  life,  sometimes  almost  amounted  to  genius.  That 
note  to  Charmian  gave  a  new  direction  to  her  thoughts,  set 
certain  subtleties  of  the  past  which  had  vaguely  troubled  her 
in  a  new  and  stronger  light.  She  awaited,  with  an  interest 
that  was  not  wholly  pleasant,  Charmian's  decision  of  the 
morrow. 

Charmian  had  been  very  casual  in  manner  when  she  came 
to  her  mother  with  the  surprising  invitation.  She  was  almost 
as  casual  on  the  following  morning  when  she  entered  the 
dining-room  where  Mrs.  Mansfield  was  breakfasting  by  elec- 
tric light.  For  a  gloom  as  of  night  hung  over  the  Square, 
although  it  was  ten  o'clock. 

"Have  you  been  thinking  it  over,  Charmian?"  said  her 
mother,  as  the  girl  sat  languidly  down. 

' '  Yes,  mother — lazily. ' ' 

She  sipped  her  tea,  looking  straight  before  her  with  a  cold 
and  dreamy  expression. 

"Have  you  been  active  enough  to  arrive  at  any  conclusion?" 

"I  got  up  quite  undecided,  but  now  I  think  I'll  say  'Yes,' 
if  you  don't  mind.  When  I  looked  out  of  the  window  this 
morning  I  felt  as  if  the  Mediterranean  would  be  nicer  than 
this.  There's  only  one  thing — why  don't  you  come,  too?" 

"  I  haven't  been  asked." 

"And  why  not?" 

"Adelaide's  too  modern  to  ask  mothers  and  daughters 
together,"  said  Mrs.  Mansfield,  smiling. 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION          53 

"Would  you  go  if  she  asked  you?" 

"No.  Well,  now  the  thing  is  to  find  out  what  the  party 
is  to  be.  Write  the  truth,  and  say  you'll  go  if  I  know  who's 
to  be  there  and  allow  you  to  go.  Adelaide  knows  quite  well 
she  has  lots  of  friends  I  shouldn't  care  for  you  to  yacht  with. 
And  it's  much  better  to  be  quite  frank  about  it.  If  Susan 
Fleet  and  Max  go,  you  can  go." 

"I  believe  you  are  really  the  frankest  person  in  London. 
And  yet  people  love  you — miracle-working  mother!" 

Charmian  turned  the  conversation  to  other  subjects  and 
seemed  to  forget  all  about  The  Wanderer.  But  when  breakfast 
was  over,  and  she  was  alone  before  her  little  Chippendale 
writing-table,  she  let  herself  go  to  her  excitement.  Although 
she  loved,  even  adored  her  mother,  she  sometimes  acted  to 
her.  To  do  so  was  natural  to  Charmian.  It  did  not  imply 
any  diminution  of  love  or  any  distrust.  It  was  but  an  instinc- 
tive assertion  of  a  not  at  all  uncommon  type  of  temperament. 
The  coldness  and  the  dreaminess  were  gone  now,  but  her 
excitement  was  mingled  with  a  great  uncertainty. 

On  receiving  Mrs.  Shiffney's  note  Charmian  had  almost 
instantly  understood  why  she  had  been  asked  on  the  cruise. 
Her  instinct  had  told  her,  for  she  had  at  that  time  known 
nothing  of  Heath's  refusal.  She  had  supposed  that  he  had 
not  yet  been  invited.  Mrs.  Shiffney  had  invited  her  not  for 
herself,  but  as  a  means  of  getting  hold  of  Heath.  Charmian 
was  positive  of  that.  Months  ago,  in  Max  Elliot's  music-room, 
the  girl  had  divined  the  impression  made  by  Heath  on  Mrs. 
Shiffney,  had  seen  the  restless  curiosity  awake  in  the  older 
woman.  She  had  even  noticed  the  tightening  of  Mrs.  Shiff- 
ney's lips  when  she,  Charmian,  had  taken  Heath  away  from 
the  little  group  by  the  fire,  with  that  "when  you've  quite  done 
with  my  only  mother,"  which  had  been  a  tiny  slap  given  to 
Mrs.  Shiffney.  And  she  had  been  sure  that  Mrs.  Shiffney 
meant  to  know  Heath.  She  had  a  great  opinion  of  Mrs. 
Shiffney's  social  cleverness  and  audacity.  Most  girls  who 
were  much  in  London  society  had.  She  did  not  really  like 
Mrs.  Shiffney,  or  want  to  be  intimate  with  her,  but  she  thor- 
oughly believed  in  her  flair,  and  that  was  why  the  note  had 
stirred  in  Charmian  excitement  and  uncertainty.  If  Mrs. 


54          THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

Shiffney  thought  she  saw  something,  surely  it  was  there. 
She  would  not  take  shadow  for  substance. 

But  might  she  not  fire  a  shot  in  the  dark  on  the  chance  of 
hitting  something? 

"Why  did  she  ask  me  instead  of  mother?"  Charmian  said 
to  herself  again  and  again.  "If  she  had  got  mother  to  go 
Claude  Heath  would  surely  have  gone.  Why  should  he  go 
because  I  go?" 

And  then  came  the  thought,  "She  thinks  he  may,  perhaps 
thinks  he  will.  Will  he?  Will  he?" 

The  note  had  abruptly  changed  an  opinion  long  held  by 
Charmian.  Till  it  came  she  had  believed  that  Claude  Heath 
secretly  disliked,  perhaps  even  despised  her.  Mrs.  Shiffney 
on  half  a  sheet  of  note-paper  had  almost  reassured  her.  But 
now  would  come  the  test.  She  would  accept;  Mrs.  Shiffney 
would  ask  Claude  Heath  again,  telling  him  she  was  to  be  of  the 
party.  And  then  what  would  Heath  do? 

As  she  wrote  her  answer  Charmian  said  to  herself,  "If  he 
accepts  Mrs.  Shiffney  was  right.  If  he  refuses  again  I  was 
right." 

She  sent  the  note  to  Grosvenor  Square  by  a  boy  messenger, 
and  resigned  herself  to  a  period  of  patience. 


CHAPTER  VI 

BY  return  there  came  a  note  hastily  scribbled: 
"Delighted.    I  will  let  you  know  all  the  particulars 
in  a  day  or  two. — A.  S." 

But  two  days,  three  days,  a  week  passed  by,  and  Charmian 
heard  nothing  more.  She  grew  restless,  but  concealed  her 
restlessness  from  her  mother,  who  asked  no  questions.  Claude 
Heath  did  not  come  to  the  house.  As  they  never  met  him  in 
society  they  did  not  see  him  at  all,  except  now  and  then  by 
chance  at  a  concert  or  theater,  unless  he  came  to  see  them. 
Excited  by  Mrs.  Mansfield's  visit  to  him,  he  was  much  shut  in, 
composing.  There  were  days  when  he  never  went  out  of  his 
little  house,  and  only  refreshed  himself  now  and  then  by  a  game 
with  Fan  or  a  conversation  with  Mrs.  Searle.  When  he  was 
working  really  hard  he  disliked  seeing  friends,  and  felt  a  strange 
and  unkind  longing  to  push  everybody  out  of  his  life.  He  was, 
therefore,  strongly  -irritated  one  afternoon,  eight  days  after 
Charmian  had  written  her  note  of  conditional  acceptance  to 
Mrs.  Shiffney,  when  his  parlor-maid,  Harriet,  after  two  or 
three  knocks,  which  made  a  well  planned  and  carried  out 
crescendo,  came  into  the  studio  with  the  announcement  that 
a  lady  wished  to  see  him. 

"Harriet,  you  know  I  can't  see  anyone!"  he  exclaimed. 

He  was  at  the  piano,  and  had  been  in  the  midst  of  exciting 
himself  by  playing  before  sitting  down  to  work. 

"Sir,"  almost  whispered  Harriet  in  her  very  refined  voice, 
"she  heard  you  playing,  and  knew  you  were  in." 

"Oh,  is  it  Mrs.  Mansfield?" 

"No,  sir,  the  lady  who  called  the  other  day  just  before  that 
lady  came." 

Claude  Heath  frowned  and  lifted  his  hands  as  if  he  were 
going  to  hit  out  at  the  piano. 

"Where  is  she?"  he  said  in  a  low  voice. 

"  In  the  drawing-room,  sir." 

"All  right,  Harriet.    It  isn't  your  fault." 

55 


56          THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

He  got  up  in  a  fury  and  went  to  the  tiny  drawing-room, 
which  he  scarcely  ever  used  unless  some  visitor  came.  Mrs. 
Shiffney  was  standing  up  in  it,  looking,  he  thought,  very  smart 
and  large  and  audacious,  bringing  upon  him,  so  he  felt  as  he 
went  in,  murmurs  and  lights  from  a  distant  world  with  which 
he  had  nothing  to  do. 

"How  angry  you  are  with  me!"  she  said,  lifting  her  veil 
and  smiling  with  a  careless  assurance.  "Your  eyes  are  quite 
blazing  with  fury." 

Claude,  in  spite  of  himself,  grew  red  and  all  his  body  felt 
suddenly  stiff. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said.  "But  I  was  working, 
and—" 

He  touched  her  powerful  hand. 

"You  had  sprouted  your  oak,  and  I  have  forced  it.  I  know 
it's  much  too  bad  of  me." 

He  saw  that  she  could  not  believe  she  was  wholly  unwanted 
by  such  a  man  as  he  was,  in  such  a  little  house  as  he  had. 
People  always  wanted  her.  Her  frankness  in  running  after 
him  showed  him  her  sense  of  her  position,  her  popularity,  her 
attraction.  How  could  she  think  she  was  undignified?  No 
doubt  she  thought  him  an  oddity  who  must  be  treated  uncon- 
ventionally. He  felt  savage,  but  he  felt  flattered. 

"I'll  show  her  what  I  am!"  was  his  thought. 

Yet  already,  as  he  begged  her  to  sit  down  on  one  of  his 
chintz-covered  chairs,  he  felt  a  sort  of  reluctant  pleasure  in 
being  with  her. 

"May  I  give  you  some  tea?" 

Her  hazel  eyes  still  seemed  to  him  full  of  laughter.  Evi- 
dently she  regarded  him  as  a  boy. 

"No,  thank  you!     I  won't  be  so  cruel  as  to  accept." 

"But  really,  I  am—" 

"No,  no,  you  aren't.  Never  mind!  We'll  be  good  friends 
some  day.  And  I  know  how  artists  with  tempers  hate  to  be 
interrupted." 

"I  hope  my  temper  is  not  especially  bad,"  said  Claude, 
stiffening  with  sudden  reserve. 

"I  think  it's  pretty  bad,  but  I  don't  mind.  What  a  dear, 
funny  little  room!  But  you  never  sit  in  it." 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION          57 

"Not  often." 

"I  long  to  see  your  very  own  room.  But  I'm  not  going 
to  ask  you." 

There  was  a  slight  pause.  Again  the  ironical  light  came 
into  her  eyes. 

"You're  wondering  quite  terribly  why  I've  come  here 
again,"  she  said.  "It's  about  the  yacht." 

"I'm  really  so  very  sorry  that — 

"I  know,  just  as  I  am  when  I'm  refusing  all  sorts  of  invi- 
tations that  I'd  rather  die  than  accept.  Slipshod,  but  you 
know  what  I  mean.  You  hate  the  idea.  I'm  only  just  going 
to  tell  you  my  party,  so  that  you  may  think  it  over  and  see 
if  you  don't  feel  tempted." 

"I  am  tempted." 

"But  you'd  rather  die  than  come.  I  perfectly  understand. 
I  often  feel  just  like  that.  We  shall  be  very  few.  Susan 
Fleet — she's  a  sort  of  chaperon  to  me;  being  a  married  woman, 
I  need  a  chaperon,  of  course — Max  Elliot,  Mr.  Lane,  perhaps — • 
if  he  can't  come  some  charming  man  whom  you'd  delight  in — 
and  Charmian  Mansfield." 

Again  there  was  a  pause.    Then  Heath  said: 

"It's  very,  very  kind  of  you  to  care  to  have  me  come." 

"I  know  it  is.  I  am  a  kind-hearted  woman.  And  now 
for  where  we'll  go." 

"I  really  am  most  awfully  sorry,  but  I'm  obliged  to  stick 
to  work." 

"We  might  go  down  along  the  Riviera  as  far  as  Genoa, 
and  then  run  over  to  Sicily  and  Tunis." 

She  saw  his  eyes  beginning  to  shine. 

"Or  we  might  go  to  the  Greek  Islands  and  Smyrna 
and  Constantinople.  It's  rather  early  for  Constantinople, 
though,  but  perfect  for  Egypt.  We  could  leave  the  yacht 
at  Alexandria — " 

"I'm  very  sorry,  Mrs.  Shiffney,  and  I  hope  you'll  have  a 
splendid  cruise.  But  I  really  can't  come  much  as  I  want  to. 
I  have  to  work." 

"When  you  say  that  you  look  all  chin!  How  terribly 
determined  you  are  not  to  enjoy  life!" 

"It  isn't  that  at  all." 


58          THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

"How  terribly  determined  you  are  not  to  know  life.  And 
I  always  thought  artists,  unless  they  wished  to  be  provincial 
in  their  work,  claimed  the  whole  world  as  their  portion,  all 
experience  as  their  right.  But  1  suppose  English  artists  are 
different.  I  often  wonder  whether  they  are  wise  in  clinging 
like  limpets  to  the  Puritan  tradition.  On  the  Continent,  you 
know,  in  Paris,  Berlin,  Rome,  Milan,  and,  above  all,  in  Mos- 
cow and  Petersburg,  they  are  regarded  with  pity  and  amaze- 
ment. Do  forgive  me!  But  artists  abroad,  and  I  speak 
universally,  though  I  know  it's  generally  dangerous  to  do 
that,  think  art  is  strangled  by  the  Puritan  tradition  clinging 
round  poor  old  England's  throat." 

She  laughed  and  moved  her  shoulders. 

"They  say  how  can  men  be  great  artists  unless  they  steep 
themselves  in  the  stream  of  life." 

"There  are  sacred  rivers  like  the  Ganges,  and  there  are 
others  that  are  foul  and  weedy  and  iridescent  with  poison," 
said  Heath  hotly. 

She  saw  anger  in  his  eyes. 

"Perhaps  you  are  getting  something — some  sacred  cantata 
— ready  for  one  of  the  provincial  festivals?"  she  said.  "If 
that  is  so,  of  course,  you  mustn't  break  the  continuity  with  a 
trip  to  the  Greek  Islands  or  Tunis.  Besides,  you'd  get  all  the 
wrong  sort  of  inspiration  in  such  places.  I  shall  never  forget 
the  beautiful  impression  I  received  at — was  it  Worcester? — 
once  when  I  saw  an  English  audience  staggering  slowly  to  its 
feet  in  tribute  to  the  Hallelujah  Chorus.  I  am  sure  you  are 
writing  something  that  will  bring  Worcester  to  its  feet,  aren't 
you?" 

He  forced  a  very  mirthless  laugh. 

"I'm  really  not  writing  anything  of  that  kind.  But  please 
don't  let  us  talk  about  my  work.  I  am  sure  it's  very  un- 
interesting except  to  me.  I  feel  very  grateful  to  you  for  your 
kind  and  delightful  offer,  but  I  can't  accept  it,  unfortunately 
for  me." 

"Mal-au-caur?" 

"Yes,  yes.     I  don't  think  I'm  a  good  sailor." 

"  M ' al-au-cceur!"  she  repeated,  smiling  satirically  at  him. 

"I'm  in  the  midst  of  something." 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION          59 

"The  Puritan  tradition?" 

"Perhaps  it  is  that.  Whatever  it  is,  I  suppose  it  suits  me; 
it's  in  my  line,  so  I  had  better  stick  to  it." 

"You  are  bathing  in  the  Ganges?" 

Her  eyes  were  fixed  upon  him. 

"Poor  Charmian  Mansfield!    Whom  can  I  get  for  her?" 

Claude  looked  down. 

"I  must  leave  that  to  you.  I  am  sure  you  will  have  a 
very  delightful  party." 

Mrs.  Shiffney  got  up.  She  was  looking  the  soul  of  careless 
good-nature,  and  quite  irresistible,  though  very  Roman. 

"I  don't  believe  in  hurried  negatives,"  she  said.  "That 
sounds  like  a  solemn  photographer  laying  down  the  law, 
doesn't  it?  But  I  don't.  I'll  give  you  till  Sunday  to  think 
it  quietly  over.  Write  and  let  me  know  on  Sunday.  Till 
then  I'll  keep  one  of  the  best  cabins  open  for  you.  No  berths, 
all  beds!  Myself,  Charmian  Mansfield,  Susan  Fleet,  Max 
Elliot,  Paul  Lane,  and  you — I  still  hope.  Good-bye!  Thank 
you  for  being  kind  to  me.  I  love  to  be  well  received.  I'm  a 
horribly  sensitive  woman,  really,  though  I  don't  look  it.  I 
curl  up  at  a  touch,  or  because  I  don't  get  one!" 

Claude  tried  to  reiterate  that  he  could  not  possibly  get 
away,  but  something  in  the  expression  of  her  eyes  made  him 
feel  that  to  do  so  just  then  would  be  to  play  the  child,  or, 
worse,  the  fool  to  this  woman  of  the  world.  As  she  got  into 
her  motor  she  said: 

"A  note  on  Sunday.     Don't  forget!" 

The  machine  purred.  He  saw  a  hand  in  a  white  glove 
carelessly  waved.  She  was  gone.  The  light  of  that  other 
world  faded;  its  murmurs  died  down.  He  went  back  to  his 
studio.  He  sat  down  at  the  piano.  He  played;  he  tried  to 
excite  himself.  The  effort  was  vain.  A  sort  of  horror  of  the 
shut-in  life  had  suddenly  come  upon  him,  of  the  life  of  the 
brain,  or  of  the  spirit,  or  of  both,  which  he  had  been  living,  if 
not  with  content  at  least  with  ardor — a  stronger  thing  than 
content.  He  felt  unmanly,  absurd.  All  sense  of  personal 
dignity  and  masculine  self-satisfaction  had  fled  from  him. 
He  was  furious  with  himself  for  being  so  sensitive.  Why 
should  he  care,  even  for  half  an  hour,  what  Mrs.  Shiffney 


60         THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

thought  of  him?  But  there  was  within  him — and  he  knew 
it — a  surely  weak  inclination  to  give  people  what  they  wanted, 
or  expected  of  him,  when  he  was^  or  had  just  been,  with  them. 
Strangely  enough  it  lay  in  his  nature  side  by  side  with  an 
obstinate  determination  to  do  what  he  chose,  to  be  what  he 
intended  to  be.  These  badly-assorted  companions  fought  and 
kept  him  restless.  They  prevented  him  from  working  now. 
And  at  last  he  left  the  piano,  put  on  hat  and  coat,  and  started 
for  a  walk  in  the  evening  darkness. 

He  felt  less  irritated,  even  happier,  when  he  was  out  in  the  air. 

How  persistent  Mrs.  Shiffney  had  been!  He  still  felt 
flattered  by  her  persistence,  not  because  he  was  a  snob  and 
was  aware  of  her  influential  position  and  great  social  popularity, 
but  because  he  was  a  young  unknown  man,  and  she  had  troops 
of  friends,  battalions  of  acquaintances.  She  could  get  anyone 
she  liked  to  go  on  the  yacht,  and  she  wanted  him.  It  was 
flattering  to  his  masculine  vanity.  He  felt  that  there  was 
something  in  him  which  stretched  out  and  caught  at  people, 
without  intention  on  his  part,  which  grasped  and  held  them. 
It  was  not  his  talent,  he  told  himself,  for  he  kept  that  in  the 
dark.  It  was  himself.  Although  he  was  less  conceited  than 
the  average  Englishman  of  talent,  for  a  few  minutes  he  braced 
his  legs  and  had  the  cordial  conquering  sensation. 

He  had  till  Sunday  to  decide. 

How  absurd  to  say  that  to  himself  when  he  had  decided, 
told  Mrs.  Shiffney,  and  even  told  Mrs.  Mansfield,  his  great 
friend!  There  was  really  no  reason  why  he  should  send  any 
note  on  Sunday.  He  had  refused  again  and  again.  That 
ought  to  be  enough  for  Mrs.  Shiffney,  for  any  woman.  But,  of 
course,  he  would  write,  lest  he  should  seem  heedless  or  impolite. 

What  a  bore  that  strong  instinct  within  him  was,  that 
instinct  which  kept  him,  as  it  were,  moored  in  a  sheltered  cove 
when  he  might  ride  the  great  seas,  and  possibly  with  buoyant 
success!  Perhaps  he  was  merely  a  coward,  a  rejector  of  life's 
offerings. 

Well,  he  had  till  Sunday. 

Claude  was  a  gentleman,  but  not  of  aristocratic  birth.  His 
people  were  Cornish,  of  an  old  and  respected  Cornish  family, 
but  quite  unknown  in  the  great  world.  They  were  very  clan- 


61 

nish,  were  quite  satisfied  with  their  position  in  their  own 
county,  were  too  simple  and  too  well-bred  to  share  any  of  the 
vulgar  instincts  and  aspirations  of  the  climber.  Comfortably 
off,  they  had  no  aching  desire  to  be  richer  than  they  were,  to 
make  any  splash.  The  love  of  ostentation  is  not  a  Cornish 
vice.  The  Heaths  were  homely  people,  hospitable,  warm- 
hearted, and  contented  without  being  complacent.  Claude 
had  often  felt  himself  a  little  apart  from  them,  yet  he  derived 
from  them  and  inherited,  doubtless,  much  from  them  of  char- 
acter, of  sentiment,  of  habit.  He  was  of  them  and  not  of 
them.  But  he  liked  their  qualities  well  in  his  soul,  although 
he  felt  that  he  could  not  live  quite  as  they  did,  or  be  satisfied 
with  what  satisfied  them. 

Although  he  had  lived  for  some  years  in  London  he  had 
never  tried,  or  even  thought  of  trying,  to  push  his  way  into 
what  are  called  "the  inner  circles."  He  had  assiduously 
cultivated  his  musical  talent,  but  never  with  a  view  to  using 
it  as  a  means  of  opening  shut  doors.  He  knew  comparatively 
few  people,  and  scarcely  any  who  were  "in  the  swim,"  who 
were  written  of  in  social  columns,  whose  names  were  on  the  lips 
of  the  journalists  and  of  the  world.  He  never  thought  about 
his  social  position  as  compared  with  that  of  others.  Accus- 
tomed to  being  a  gentleman,  he  did  not  want  to  be  more  or 
other  than  he  was.  Had  he  been  poor  the  obligation  to  strug- 
gle might  have  roused  within  him  the  instinct  to  climb.  A 
forced  activity  might  have  bred  in  him  the  commoner  sort  of 
ambition.  But  he  had  enough  money  and  could  gratify  his 
inclination  toward  secrecy  and  retirement.  For  several 
years,  since  he  had  left  the  Royal  College  of  Music  and  settled 
down  in  his  little  house,  he  had  been  happy  enough  in  his 
sheltered  and  perhaps  rather  selfish  existence.  Dwelling  in 
the  center  of  a  great  struggle  for  life,  he  had  enjoyed  it  because 
he  had  had  nothing  to  do  with  it.  His  own  calm  had  been 
agreeably  accentuated  by  the  turmoil  which  surrounded  and 
enclosed  it.  How  many  times  had  he  blessed  his  thousand  a 
year,  that  armor  of  gold  with  which  fate  had  provided  him! 
How  often  had  he  imagined  himself  stripped  of  it,  realized 
mentally  the  sudden  and  fierce  alteration  in  his  life  and  eventu- 
ally, no  doubt,  in  himself  that  must  follow  if  poverty  came! 


62          THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

He  had  a  horror  of  the  jealousies,  the  quarrels,  the  hatreds, 
the  lies,  the  stabbings  in  the  dark  that  make  too  often  hideous, 
despicable,  and  terrible  a  world  that  should  be  very  beautiful. 
During  his  musical  education  he  had  seen  enough  to  realize 
that  side  by  side  with  great  talent,  with  a  warm  impulse  to- 
ward beauty,  with  an  ardor  that  counts  labor  as  nothing, 
or  as  delight,  may  exist  coldness,  meanness,  the  tendency  to 
slander,  egoism  almost  inhuman  in  its  concentration,  the  will 
to  climb  over  the  bodies  of  the  fallen,  the  tyrant's  mind,  and 
the  stony  heart  of  the  cruel.  Art,  so  it  seemed  to  Claude,  often 
hardened  instead  of  softening  the  nature  of  man.  That, 
no  doubt,  was  because  artists  were  generally  competitors. 
Actors,  writers,  singers,  conductors,  composers  were  pitted 
against  each  other.  The  world  that  should  be  calm,  serene, 
harmonious,  and  perfectly  balanced  became  a  cock-pit,  raucous 
with  angry  voices,  dabbled  with  blood,  and  strewn  with  the 
torn  feathers  of  the  fallen. 

The  many  books  which  he  had  read  dealing  with  the  lives 
of  great  artists,  sometimes  their  own  autobiographies,  had  only 
confirmed  him  in  his  wish  to  keep  out  of  the  struggle.  Such 
books,  deeply  interesting  though  they  were,  often  made  him 
feel  almost  sick  at  heart.  As  he  read  them  he  saw  genius 
slipping,  or  even  wallowing  in  pits  full  of  slime.  Men  showered 
their  gold  out  of  blackness.  They  rose  on  strong  pinions  only 
to  sink  down  below  the  level  surely  of  even  the  average  man. 
And  angry  passions  attended  them  along  the  pilgrimage  of 
their  lives,  seemed  born  and  bred  of  their  very  being.  Few 
books  made  Claude  feel  so  sad  as  the  books  which  chronicled 
the  genius  of  men  submitted  to  the  conditions  which  prevail 
in  the  ardent  struggle  for  life. 

He  closed  them,  and  was  happy  with  his  own  quiet  fate,  his 
apparently  humdrum  existence,  which  provided  no  material 
for  any  biographer,  the  fate  of  the  unknown  man  who  does  not 
wish  to  be  known. 

But,  of  course,  there  was  in  him,  as  there  is  in  almost  every 
man  of  strong  imagination  and  original  talent,  a  restlessness 
like  that  of  the  physically  strong  man  who  has  never  tried 
and  proved  his  strength  in  any  combat. 

Mrs.  Shiffney  had  appealed  to  his  restlessness,  which  had 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION          63 

driven  Claude  forth  into  the  darkness  of  evening  and  now  com- 
panioned him  along  the  London  ways.  He  knew  no  woman  of 
her  type  well,  and  something  in  him  instinctively  shrank  from 
her  type.  As  he  had  said  to  Mrs.  Mansfield,  he  dreaded,  yet 
he  was  aware  that  he  might  be  fascinated  by,  the  monster  with 
teeth  and  claws  always  watchful  and  hungry  for  pleasure. 
And  the  voice  that  murmured,  "To-morrow  we  die!  To- 
morrow we  die!"  was  like  a  groan  in  his  ears.  But  now,  as  he 
walked,  he  was  almost  inclined  to  scold  his  imagination  as  a 
companion  which  led  him  into  excesses,  to  rebel  against  his  own 
instinct.  Why  should  he  refuse  any  pleasant  temptation  that 
came  in  his  way?  Why  should  he  decline  to  go  on  the  yacht? 
Was  he  not  a  prude,  a  timorous  man  to  be  so  afraid  for  his  own 
safety,  not  of  body,  but  of  mind  and  soul?  Mrs.  Shiffney's 
remarks  about  Continental  artists  stuck  in  his  mind.  Ought 
he  not  to  fling  off  his  armor,  to  descend  boldly  into  the  mid- 
stream of  life,  to  let  it  take  him  on  its  current  whither  it 
would? 

He  was  conscious  that  if  once  he  abandoned  his  cautious 
existence  he  might  respond  to  many  calls  which,  as  yet,  had 
not  appealed  to  him.  He  fancied  that  he  was  one  of  those 
natures  which  cannot  be  half-hearted,  which  cannot  easily 
mingle,  arrange,  portion  out,  take  just  so  much  of  this  and  so 
much  of  that.  The  recklessness  that  looked  out  of  Mrs. 
Shiffney's  eyes  spoke  to  something  in  him  that  might  be 
friendly  to  it,  though  something  else  in  him  disliked,  despised, 
almost  dreaded  it. 

He  had  answered.  Yet  on  Sunday  he  must  answer  again. 
How  he  wished  Mrs.  Shiffney  had  not  called  upon  him  a  second 
time!  In  her  persistence  he  read  her  worldly  cleverness.  She 
divined  the  instability  which  he  now  felt  within  him.  It  must 
be  so.  It  was  so.  The  first  time  he  had  met  her  he  had  had  a 
feeling  as  if  to  her  almost  impertinent  eyes  he  were  trans- 
parent. And  she  had  evidently  seen  something  he  had 
supposed  to  be  hidden,  something  he  wished  were  not  in 
existence. 

Her  remarks  about  English  musicians,  her  banter  about 
the  provincial  festivals  had  stung  him.  The  word  "pro- 
vincial" rankled.  If  it  applied  to  him,  to  his  talent!  If  he 


64          THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

were  merely  provincial  and  destined  to  remain  so  because  of 
his  way  of  life ! 

Abruptly  he  became  solicitous,  of  opinion.  He  thought  of 
Mrs.  Mansfield,  and  wondered  what  had  been  her  opinion  of 
his  music.  Almost  mechanically  he  crossed  the  broad  road 
by  the  Marble  Arch,  turned  into  the  windings  of  Mayfair,  and 
made  his  way  to  Berkeley  Square. 

"I'll  ask  her.    I'll  find  out!"  was  his  thought. 

He  rang  Mrs.  Mansfield's  bell. 

"Is  Mrs.  Mansfield  at  home?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Is  she  alone?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

Heath  stepped  in  quickly.  He  still  felt  excited,  uncertain 
of  himself,  even  self-conscious  under  the  eyes  of  the  butler. 
There  was  no  one  in  the  drawing-room.  As  he  waited  he 
wondered  whether  Charmian  was  in  the  house,  whether  he 
would  see  her.  And  now,  for  the  first  time,  he  began  to  wonder 
also  why  Mrs.  Shiffney  had  made  so  much  of  the  fact  that 
Charmian  was  to  be  on  the  yacht.  He  recalled  her  words, 
"  Poor  Charmian  Mansfield!  Whom  can  I  get  for  her?"  Had 
he  been  asked  on  Charmian's  account?  That  seemed  to  him 
very  absurd.  She  certainly  disliked  him.  They  were  not  en 
rapport.  In  the  yacht  they  would  be  thrown  together  inces- 
santly. He  thought  of  the  expression  in  Mrs.  Shiffney's  eyes 
and  felt  positive  that  she  had  pressed  him  to  come  for  herself. 
But  possibly  she  fancied  he  liked  Charmian  because  he  came 
so  often  to  Berkeley  Square.  The  cleverest  woman,  it  seemed, 
made  mistakes.  But  he  could  not  quite  understand  Mrs. 
Shiffney's  proceedings.  If  he  did,  after  all,  go  on  the  yacht  it 
would  be  rather  amusing  to  study  her.  And  Charmian? 
Heath  said  to  himself  that  he  did  not  want  to  study  her.  She 
was  too  uncertain,  not  without  a  certain  fascination  perhaps, 
but  too  ironic,  too  something.  He  scarcely  knew  what  it  was 
that  he  disliked,  almost  dreaded,  in  her.  She  was  mischievous 
at  wrong  moments.  The  minx  peeped  up  in  her  and  repelled 
him.  She  watched  him  in  surely  a  hostile  way  and  did  not 
understand  him.  So  he  was  on  the  defensive  with  her,  never 
quite  at  his  ease. 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION          65 

The  door  opened  and  Mrs.  Mansfield  came  in.  Heath  went 
toward  her  and  took  her  hands  eagerly.  This  evening  he  felt 
less  independent  than  he  usually  did,  and  in  need  of  a  real  friend. 

"What  is  it?"  she  said,  after  a  look  at  him. 

"  Why  should  it  be  anything  special?" 

"But  it  is!" 

He  laughed  almost  uneasily. 

"I  wish  I  hadn't  a  face  that  gives  me  away  always!"  he 
exclaimed.  "  Though  to  you  I  don't  mind  very  much.  Well, 
I  wanted  to  ask  you  two  or  three  things,  if  I  may." 

Mrs.  Mansfield  sat  down  on  her  favorite  sofa,  with  her  feet 
on  a  stool. 

"Anything,"  she  said. 

"Do  you  mind  telling  me  exactly  what  you  thought  of  my 
music  the  other  evening?  Did  you — did  you  think  it  feeble 
stuff?  Did  you,  perhaps,  think  it" — he  paused — "pro- 
vincial?" he  concluded,  with  an  effort. 

"Provincial!" 

Heath  was  answered,  but  he  persisted. 

"What  did  you  think?" 

"I  thought  it  alarming." 

"Alarming?" 

"Disturbing.     It  has  disturbed  me." 

"Disturbed  your  mind?" 

"Or  my  heart,  perhaps." 

"But  why?     How?" 

"I'm  not  sure  that  I  could  tell  you  that." 

Heath  sat  down.  When  he  was  not  composing  or  playing 
he  sometimes  felt  very  uncertain  of  himself,  lacking  in  self- 
confidence.  He  often  had  moments  when  he  felt  not  merely 
doubtful  as  to  his  talent,  but  as  if  he  were  less  in  almost  every 
way  than  the  average  man.  He  endeavored  to  conceal  this 
disagreeable  weakness,  which  he  suffered  under  and  despised, 
but  could  not  rid  himself  of;  and  in  consequence  his  manner  was 
sometimes  uneasy.  It  was  rather  uneasy  now.  He  longed  to 
be  reassured.  Mrs.  Mansfield  found  him  strangely  different 
from  the  man  who  had  played  to  her,  who  had  scarcely  seemed 
to  care  what  she  thought,  what  anyone  thought  of  his  music. 

"I  do  wish  you  would  try  to  tell  me!"  he  said  anxiously. 


66          THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

"Why  should  you  care  what  I  think?"  she  said,  almost  as 
if  in  rebuke. 

" Perhaps  my  music  is  terrible  rubbish!" 

"It  certainly  is  not,  or  it  could  not  have  made  a  strong 
impression  upon  me." 

"It  did  really  make  a  strong  impression?" 

"Very  strong." 

"Then  you  think  I  have  something  in  me  worth  developing, 
worth  taking  care  of?" 

"I  am  sure  you  have." 

"I  wonder  how  I  ought  to  live?"  he  exclaimed. 

"Is  that  what  you  came  to  ask  me?" 

Her  fiery  eyes  seemed  to  search  him.  She  sat  very  still, 
looking  intensely  alive. 

"To-night  I  feel  as  if  I  didn't  know,  didn't  know  at  all! 
You  see,  I  avoid  so  many  things,  so  many  experiences  that  I 
might  have." 

"Do  you?" 

"Yes.  I  think  I've  done  that  for  years.  I  know  I'm 
doing  it  now." 

He  moved  restlessly. 

"Mrs.  Shiffney  has  asked  me  again  to  go  yachting  with  her." 

"But  I  thought  you  had  refused." 

"I  did.  But  she  has  been  again  to-day.  She  says  your 
daughter  is  going." 

"Charmian  has  been  asked." 

"Mrs.  Shiffney  said  she  had  accepted  the  invitation." 

"Yes." 

"And  now  I'm  to  give  my  answer  on  Sunday." 

"You  seem  quite  upset  about  it,"  she  said,  without  sarcasm. 

"Of  course  it  seems  a  small  matter.  People  would  laugh 
at  me,  I  know,  for  worrying.  But  what  I  feel  is  that  if  I  go 
with  Mrs.  Shiffney,  or  go  to  Max  Elliot's  parties,  I  shall  very 
soon  be  drawn  into  a  life  quite  different  from  the  one  I  have 
always  led.  And  I  do  think  it  matters  very  much  to — to  some 
people  just  how  they  live,  whom  they  know  well,  and  so  on. 
Men  say,  of  course,  that  a  man  ought  to  face  the  rough  and 
tumble  of  life.  And  some  women  say  a  man  ought  to  welcome 
every  experience.  I  wonder  what  the  truth  is?" 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION          67 

Still  with  her  eyes  on  him,  Mrs.  Mansfield  said: 

"Follow  your  instinct." 

"Can't  one  have  conflicting  instincts?" 

"Oh,  no!" 

"Then  one's  instinct  may  not  be  strong  enough  to  make 
itself  known." 

"I  doubt  that." 

"But  I  am  a  man,  you  a  woman.  Women  are  said  to  have 
stronger  instincts  than  men." 

"Aren't  you  playing  with  your  own  convictions?" 

"Ami?" 

He  stared  at  her,  but  for  a  moment  his  eyes  looked  uncon- 
scious of  her. 

"  Mrs.  Shiffney  said  something  to  me  that  struck  me,"  he  said 
presently.  "  She  implied  that  experiences  of  all  kinds  are  the 
necessary  food  for  anyone  who  wishes  to  be  at  all  a  big  artist. 
She  evidently  thinks  that  England  has  failed  to  produce  great 
musicians  because  the  English  are  hampered  by  tradition." 

"She  thinks  uncleanliness  necessary  to  the  producing  of 
beauty  perhaps!" 

"Ah,  I  believe  you  have  put  into  words  what  I  have  been 
thinking!" 

"Is  it  wisdom  to  grope  for  stars  in  the  mud?" 

"No,  no!    It  can't  be!" 

He  was  silent.     Then  he  said: 

"  St  Augustine,  and  many  others,  went  through  mud  to  the 
stars  though." 

"St.  Francis  didn't — if  we  are  to  talk  of  the  saints." 

"I  believe  you  could  guide  me." 

Mrs.  Mansfield  looked  deeply  touched.  For  an  instant  tears 
glistened  in  her  eyes.  Nevertheless,  her  next  remark  was 
almost  sternly  uncompromising. 

"Even  if  I  could,  don't  let  me." 

"Why?" 

"I  want  the  composer  of  the  music  I  heard  at  the  little 
house  to  be  very  strong  in  every  way.  No,  no;  I  am  not 
going  to  try  to  guide  you,  my  friend!" 

There  was  a  sound  in  her  voice  as  if  she  were  speaking  to 
herself. 


68         THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

"I  never  met  anyone  so  capable  of  comradeship — no 
woman,  I  mean — as  you." 

"That's  a  compliment  I  like!" 

At  this  moment  the  door  opened  and  Charmian  came  in, 
-wrapped  in  furs,  her  face  covered  by  a  veil.  When  she 
saw  Heath  with  her  mother  she  pushed  the  veil  up  rather 
languidly. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Heath!  We  haven't  seen  you  for  ages.  What 
have  you  been  about?" 

"Nothing  in  particular." 

"Haven't  you?" 

"Take  off  that  thick  coat,  Charmian,  and  come  and  talk 
to  us." 

"Shall  I?" 

She  unbuttoned  the  fur  slowly.  Claude  helped  her  to  take 
it  off.  As  she  emerged  he  thought,  "How  slim  she  is!"  He 
had  often  before  looked  at  girls  and  wondered  at  their  slimness, 
and  thought  that  it  seemed  part  of  their  mystery.  It  both 
.attracted  and  repelled  him. 

"Are  you  talking  of  very  interesting  things?"  she  asked, 
coming  toward  the  fire. 

"I  hear  you  are  going  for  a  cruise  with  Mrs.  Shiffney,"  said 
Claude,  uneasily. 

"I  believe  I  am.  It  would  be  rather  nice  to  get  out  of  this 
weather.  But  you  don't  mind  it." 

"How  can  you  know  that?" 

"It's  very  simple,  almost  as  simple  as  some  of  Sherlock 
Holmes's  deductions.  You  have  refused  the  cruise  which  I 
have  accepted.  I  expect  you  were  right.  No  doubt  one 
might  get  terribly  bored  on  a  yacht,  unable  to  get  away  from 
people.  I  almost  wonder  that  I  dared  to  say  'Yes!'  : 

"Where  are  you  going  to  sit,  Charmian?"  said  Mrs.  Mans- 
field. 

"Dearest  mother,  I'm  afraid  I  must  go  upstairs.  I've  got 
to  try  on  coats  and  skirts." 

She  turned  toward  Heath. 

"The  voyage,  you  know.     I  wish  you  could  have  come!" 

She  held  out  her  thin  hand,  smiling.  She  was  looking  very 
serene,  very  sure  of  herself. 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION          69 

"I'm  to  answer  Mrs.  Shiffney  on  Sunday,"  said  Heath 
abruptly. 

Something  in  Chairman's  voice  and  manner  had  made  him 
feel  defiant. 

"Oh,  I  thought  you  had  answered!  Is  Sunday  your  day 
for  making  up  your  mind?" 

Before  he  could  reply  she  went  out  of  the  room  slowly, 
smiling. 


CHAPTER  VII 

ON  the  following  Sunday  night  at  ten  o'clock  Max  Elliot 
gave  one  of  his  musical  parties. 

Delia  had  long  since  emerged  from  her  rest  cure,  but 
was  still  suffering  severely  from  its  after-effects.  It  had  com- 
pletely broken  her  down,  poor  thing.  The  large  quantities  of 
"Marella"  which  she  had  imbibed  had  poisoned  the  system. 
The  Swedish  massage  had  made  her  bulky.  And  the  prohibi- 
tion as  to  letters  had  so  severely  shaken  her  nerve  ganglions 
that  she  had  been  forced  to  seek  the  strengthening  air  of  an 
expensive  Swiss  altitude,  from  which  she  had  only  just  returned 
by  way  of  Paris,  where  she  had  been  nearly  finished  off  by  the 
dressmakers.  However,  being  a  woman  of  courage,  she  was 
down  in  peach  color,  with  a  pale  turquoise-blue  waist-belt, 
to  receive  her  guests  and  to  help  to  make  things  cheery.  And 
she  devoured  condolences  with  an  excellent  appetite. 

"Whatever  you  do,  never  touch  'Marella'!"  she  was  saying 
in  her  quick,  light  voice  as  Mrs.  Mansfield  and  Charmian  came 
into  the  music-room.  "It's  poison.  It  turns  everything  to  I 
forget  what,  but  something  that  develops  the  microbes  instead 
of  destroying  them.  I  nearly  died  of  it.  Ah,  Violet!  Don't 
let  Charmian  be  massaged  by  a  Swede.  It  will  ruin  her  figure. 
I've  had  to  starve  in  Switzerland,  or  I  couldn't  have  got  into 
any  of  my  new  gowns.  There's  nothing  so  fatal  as  a  rest  cure. 
It  sets  every  nerve  on  edge.  The  terrible  monotony,  and  not 
knowing  whether  those  one  loves  are  alive  or  dead,  whether  the 
Government's  gone  out,  or  if  there's  a  new  King,  or  anything. 
Quite  unnatural!  It  unfits  one  to  face  life  and  cope  with  one's 
friends.  But  Max  would  make  me.  Dear  old  Max!  He's 
such  a  faddist.  Men  are  the  real  faddists.  I'll  tell  you  about 
a  marvellous  new  Arab  remedy  presently.  I  heard  about  it 
in  Paris.  We  are  going  to  have  a  lot  of  music  in  a  minute. 
Yes,  yes!" 

She  spoke  rapidly,  looking  about  the  room  and  seldom 

70 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION          71 

hearing  what  was  said  to  her.  Perpetual  society  had  destroyed 
in  her  all  continuity  of  mind.  Ever  since  she  could  remember 
she  had  forgotten  how  to  listen.  She  wanted  to  see,  hear, 
know  everybody,  everything.  Her  mind  hovered  on  the 
horizon,  her  restless  and  pale-blue  eyes  sought  the  farthest 
corners  of  the  chamber  to  see  what  was  happening  in  them, 
while  she  spoke  to  those  within  a  foot  or  two  of  her.  She 
laughed  at  jokes  she  did  not  catch  or  want  to  catch.  She 
replied  to  questions  she  had  divined  by  the  expression  on  a  face 
while  she  was  glancing  over  the  head  it  belonged  to.  She 
asked  for  information  and  travelled  away  ere  it  was  given. 
Yet  many  people  liked  her.  She  was  one  of  those  very  fair 
and  small  women  who  always  look  years  younger  than  almost 
anyone  really  is,  was  full  of  vague  charm,  was  kind,  not  stupid, 
and  a  good  little  thing,  had  two  children  and  was  only  concen- 
trated when  at  the  dressmaker's  or  trying  on  hats. 

Max  was  devoted  to  her  and  rejoiced  in  spoiling  her.  He 
was  one  of  those  men  who  like  to  have  a  butterfly  in  the  room 
with  them. 

Mrs.  Mansfield  never  tried  to  talk  to  Delia  in  a  crowd,  and 
she  and  Charmian  went  on  into  the  big  room.  It  was  already 
full  of  people,  many  of  whom  were  sitting  on  chairs  grouped 
about  the  dais  on  which  was  the  piano,  while  others  stood 
about,  and  still  others  looked  down  upon  the  throng  from 
recessed  balconies,  gained  from  a  hidden  corridor  with  which 
the  main  staircase  of  the  house  communicated. 

Charmian  saw  Mrs.  Shiffney  not  far  off,  talking  and  laughing 
with  a  great  portrait  painter,  who  looked  like  a  burly  farmer, 
and  with  a  renowned  operatic  baritone,  whose  voice  had  left 
him  in  the  prime  of  his  life  and  who  now  gave  singing  lessons, 
and  tried  to  fight  down  the  genius  which  was  in  him  and  to 
which  he  could  no  longer  give  expression.  He  had  a  pale,  large, 
and  cruel  face,  and  gray  eyes  that  had  become  sinister  since 
the  disaster  which  had  overtaken  him.  Near  this  group  were 
three  men,  a  musical  critic,  Paul  Lane,  and  a  famous  English 
composer,  prop  and  stay  of  provincial  festivals.  The  comr 
poser  was  handsome,  with  merry  eyes  and  a  hearty  laugh 
which  seemed  to  proclaim  "Sanity!  Sanity!  Sanity!  Don't 
be  afraid  of  the  composer! "  The  critic  was  tall,  gay,  and  ener- 


72         THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

getic,  and  also  looked — indeed,  seemed  to  mean  to  look — a 
thorough  good  fellow  who  had  a  hatred  of  shams.  Lane, 
pale  and  discontented,  had  an  air  of  being  out  of  place  in  their 
company.  Pretty  women  were  everywhere,  and  there  were 
many  young  and  very  smart  men.  On  a  sofa  close  to  Char- 
mian  a  degagee-looking  Duchess  was  telling  a  "darkie"  story 
to  a  lively  and  debonair  writer,  who  was  finding  his  story  to 
cap  it  while  he  listened  and  smiled.  Just  beyond  them  were 
two  impertinent  and  picturesquely  dressed  girls,  sisters,  whom 
Charmian  knew  intimately  and  met  at  almost  every  party  she 
went  to.  One  of  them,  who  wore  gold  laurel  leaves  in  her  dark 
hair,  made  a  little  face  at  Charmian,  which  seemed  to  express 
a  satirical  welcome  and  the  promise  of  sarcasm  when  they 
should  be  near  enough  to  talk.  The  other  was  being  prettily 
absurd  with  an  excellent  match.  Close  to  the  piano  stood  a 
very  beautiful  woman  dressed  in  black,  without  jewels  or 
gloves,  who  had  an  exquisite  profile,  hollow  cheeks  and  haggard 
but  lovely  brown  eyes.  She  was  talking  to  several  people  who 
were  gathered  about  her,  and  never  smiled.  It  was  impossible 
to  imagine  that  she  could  ever  smile.  Her  name  was  Lady 
Mildred  Burnington,  and  she  was  an  admirable  amateur  vio- 
linist, married  to  Admiral  Sir  Hilary  Burnington,  one  of  the 
Sea  Lords.  Max  Elliot  was  in  the  distance,  talking  eagerly 
in  the  midst  of  a  group  of  musicians.  A  tall  singer,  a  woman 
from  the  Paris  Opera  Comique,  stood  by  him  with  her  right 
hand  on  his  arm,  as  if  she  wanted  to  interrupt  him.  She  was 
deathly  pale,  with  hair  like  the  night,  ebon,  and  a  face  almost 
as  exaggeratedly  expressive  as  a  tragic  pierrot's.  People 
pointed  her  out  as  Millie  Deans,  a  Southern  American  never 
yet  heard  in  London.  She  spoke  to  Max  Elliot,  then  looked 
round  the  room,  with  sultry,  defiant  and  yet  anxious  eyes. 
As  if  in  answer  to  Millie  Deans's  words,  Max  Elliot  moved 
away  with  her,  and  took  her  through  the  throng  to  Mrs.  Shiff- 
ney,  who  turned  round  with  her  movement  of  the  shoulders  as 
they  came  up.  Charmian,  watching,  saw  Mrs.  Shiffney's  gay 
and  careless  smile,  the  piercing  light  in  her  eyes  as  she  looked 
swiftly  at  the  singer,  who  faced  her  with  a  tragic  and  deter- 
mined expression.  The  portrait  painter  stood  by,  with  his 
rather  protruding  eyes  fixed  on  Miss  Deans. 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION          73 

As  Charmian  glanced  round  at  the  crowd  and  spoke  to  one 
person  and  another  she  was  seized  again  by  her  horror  of  being 
one  of  the  unknown  lives.  She  saw  many  celebrities.  She 
yearned  to  be  numbered  among  them.  If  she  could  even  be  as 
Mrs.  Shiffney,  an  arbiter  of  taste,  a  setter  of  fashions  in  admira- 
tion; if  she  could  see  people  look  at  her,  as  Millie  Deans  looked 
at  Mrs.  Shiffney,  with  the  hard  determination  to  win  her  over 
to  their  side  in  the  battle  of  art,  she  thought  she  could  be  happy. 
But  to  be  nobody,  "  that  pretty  little  Charmian,"  "that  grace- 
ful Charmian  Mansfield,  but  she's  not  half  as  clever  as  her 
mother"!  To-night  she  felt  as  if  she  could  not  bear  it. 

Mrs.  Shiffney  had  turned  away  from  the  singer,  and  now 
her  eyes  rested  on  Charmian.  She  nodded  and  smiled  and 
made  a  beckoning  motion  with  her  left  hand.  But  at  this 
moment  a  singer  and  composer,  half  Spanish,  half  nobody 
knew  what,  who  called  himself  Ferdinand  Rades,  sat  down 
before  the  piano  with  a  lighted  cigarette  in  his  mouth  and 
struck  a  few  soft  chords,  looking  about  him  with  a  sort  of  sad 
and  languid  insolence  and  frowning  till  his  thick  eyebrows 
came  down  to  make  a  penthouse  roof  above  his  jet  black  eyes. 

"Hush— hush,  please!"  said  Max  Elliot,  loudly.  "  'Sh 
— 'sh — 'sh!  Monsieur  Rades  is  going  to  sing." 

He  bent  to  Rades. 

"What  is  it?  Monsieur  Rades  will  sing  Le  Moulin,  and 
Le  Retour  de  Madame  Blague." 

There  was  a  ripple  of  applause,  and  Mrs.  Shiffney  hastily 
made  her  way  to  a  chair  just  in  front  of  the  piano,  sat  down 
on  it,  and  gazed  at  Rades,  who  turned  and  stared  at  her. 
Then,  taking  the  cigarette  from  his  mouth,  he  sang  Le  Moulin 
at  her,  leaning  back,  swaying  and  moving  his  thick  eyebrows. 
It  was  a  sad  song,  full  of  autumnal  atmosphere,  a  delicate 
and  sensual  caress  of  sorrow.  The  handsome  composer  and 
the  lusty  musical  critic  listened  to  it,  watched  the  singer  with 
a  sort  of  bland  contempt.  But  when  he  threw  away  his 
cigarette  and  sang  Le  Retour  de  Madame  Blague,  an  outrageous 
trifle,  full  of  biting  esprit  and  insolent  wit,  with  a  refrain 
like  the  hum  of  Paris  by  night,  and  a  long  bouchefermee  effect 
at  the  end,  even  they  joined  in  the  laughter  and  the  applause, 
though  with  a  certain  reluctance,  as  if,  in  doing  so,  they  half 


74         THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

feared  to  descend  into  a  gutter  where  slippery  and  slimy 
things  made  their  abode. 

Mrs.  Shiffney  got  up  and  begged  Ferdinand  to  sing  again, 
mentioning  several  songs  by  name.  He  shook  his  head, 
letting  his  apparently  boneless  and  square-nailed  hands  stray 
about  over  the  piano  all  the  tune  she  was  speaking  to  him. 

"Non,  nonl    Ce  soir  nonl    Impossible!" 

''Then  sing  Petite  Fille  de  Tombouctou!"  she  exclaimed  at 
last. 

And  before  he  could  answer  she  turned  round,  smiling,  and 
said:  " Petite  Fille  de  Tombouctou." 

There  was  a  murmur  of  delight,  and  the  impertinent  girl 
with  laurel  leaves  in  her  dark  hair  suddenly  looked  exotic  and 
full  of  languors.  And  Charmian  thought  of  the  yacht.  Had 
Mrs.  Shiffney  received  Claude  Heath's  answer  yet?  He  was 
to  make  up  his  mind  on  Sunday.  Rades  was  singing.  His 
accompaniment  was  almost  terribly  rhythmical,  with  a  sug- 
gestion of  the  little  drums  that  the  black  men  love.  She  saw 
fierce  red  flowers  while  he  sang,  strange  alleys  with  houses  like 
huts,  trees  standing  stiffly  in  a  blaze  of  heat,  sand,  limbs  the 
color  of  slate.  The  sound  of  the  curious  voice  had  become 
Eastern,  the  look  in  the  insolent  black  eyes  Eastern.  There 
seemed  to  be  an  odd  intoxication  in  the  face,  pale,  impassive, 
and  unrighteous,  as  if  the  effects  of  a  drug  were  beginning 
to  steal  upon  the  senses.  And  the  white,  square-nailed 
hands  beat  gently  upon  the  piano  till  many  people,  uncon- 
sciously, began  to  sway  ever  so  little  to  and  fro.  An  angry 
look  came  into  Millie  Deans's  eyes,  and  when  the  last  drum 
throb  died  away  and  the  little  girl  of  Tombouctou  slept 
for  ever  in  the  sand,  slain  by  her  Prince  of  Darkness,  for  a 
reason  that  seemed  absurdly  inadequate  to  the  British  com- 
poser who  was  a  prop  of  the  provincial  festivals,  but  quite 
adequate  to  almost  every  woman  in  the  room,  her  mouth  set 
in  a  hardness  that  was  almost  menacing. 

After  ten  minutes'  conversation  an  English  soprano  sang 
Bach's  Heart  Ever  Faithful.  Variety  was  always  welcomed 
at  the  parties  in  Cadogan  Square. 

"Glorious,  old  chap!"  said  the  British  composer.  "We've 
come  up  into  God's  air  now." 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION          75 

The  critic  swung  his  right  arm  like  a  man  who  enjoyed 
bowling  practice  at  the  nets. 

"Lung  exercise!  Lung  exercise!"  he  breathed.  "And  that 
drop  at  the  end!  What  a  stroke  of  genius!" 

Mrs.  Shiffney  had  disappeared  with  Rades.  She  loved 
Bach — in  the  supper-room.  In  the  general  movement  which 
took  place  when  the  soprano  had  left  the  dais,  escorted  by 
Max  Elliot,  to  have  a  glass  of  something,  Charmian  found 
herself  beside  Margot  Drake,  the  girl  with  the  laurel  leaves. 

Margot  and  her  sister  Kit  were  extremely  well  known  in 
London.  Their  father  was  a  very  rich  iron-master,  a  self- 
made  man,  who  had  been  created  a  Baronet  and  had  married 
an  ultra-aristocratic  woman,  the  beautiful  Miss  Enid  Blensover, 
related  to  half  the  Peerage.  The  blend  had  resulted  in  the  two 
girls,  who  were  certainly  anything  rather  than  ordinary. 
They  were  half  Blensovers  and  half  Drakes:  delicate,  languid, 
hot-house  plants;  shrewd,  almost  coarse,  and  pushing  growths, 
hardy  and  bold,  and  inclined  to  be  impudent.  In  appearance 
they  resembled  their  mother,  and  they  had  often  much  of  her 
enervated  and  almost  decaying  manner.  Her  beauty  was  of 
the  dropping-to-pieces  type,  bound  together  by  wonderful 
clothes  of  a  fashion  peculiar  to  herself  and  very  effective. 
But  they  had  the  energy,  the  ruthlessness,  and  the  indifference 
to  opinion  of  their  father,  and  loved  to  startle  the  world  he 
had  won  for  himself.  They  were  shameless,  ultra-smart,  with 
a  sort  of  half-condescending  passion  for  upper  Bohemia.  And 
as  neither  their  mother  nor  they  cared  about  anybody's  private 
life  or  morals,  provided  the  sinner  was  celebrated,  lovely,  or 
amusing,  they  knew  intimately,  even  to  calling  by  Christian 
names,  all  sorts  of  singers,  actresses,  dancers,  sculptors,  writers, 
and  painters,  who  were  never  received  in  any  sort  of  good 
society  on  the  Continent  or  in  America.  London's  notorious 
carelessness  in  such  matters  was  led  gaily  by  their  mother  and 
by  them.  Their  house  in  Park  Lane  was  popularly  known  as 
"the  ragbag,"  and  they  were  perpetually  under  the  spell  of 
some  rage  of  the  moment.  Now  they  were  twin  Bacchantes, 
influenced  by  a  Siberian  dancer  at  the  Palace;  now  curiously 
Eastern,  captured  by  a  Nautch  girl  whom  they  had  come  to 
know  in  Paris.  For  a  time  they  were  Japanese,  when  the 


76          THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

Criterion  opened  its  doors  to  a  passionate  doll  from  Yokohama, 
who  became  their  bosom  friend.  Italy  touched  them  with  the 
lovely  hands  of  La  Divina  Carlotta,  our  lady  of  tears  from  a 
slum  of  Naples.  The  Sicilians  turned  them  to  fire  and  the 
Swedish  singers  to  snow.  At  this  moment  Margot  was  inclined 
to  be  classic,  caught  by  a  plastic  poseuse  from  Athens,  who, 
attired  solely  in  gold-leaf,  was  giving  exhibitions  at  the  Hippo- 
drome to  the  despair  of  Mrs.  Grundy.  And  Kit  was  waiting 
for  a  new  lead  and  marking  time  in  the  newest  creations  from 
Paris. 

"Charmian,  come  and  sit  down  for  just  a  moment!  Run 
away  and  play,  Lord  Mark!" 

"With  whom?"  said  a  handsome  boy  plaintively. 

"With  Jenny  Smythe,  with  Lady  Dolly,  anyone  who  can 
play  pretty.  Come  back  in  ten  minutes  and  I'll  be  bothered 
with  you  again — perhaps.  Let's  sit  here,  Charmian.  Wasn't 
the  Fille  too  perfect?  But  the  Bach  was  like  the  hewing 
of  wood  and  the  drawing  of  water.  Max  shouldn't  have 
allowed  it.  What  do  you  think  of  my  gold  gown?" 

"It's  lovely!" 

"The  Greeks  knew  everything  and  we  know  nothing. 
This  dress  hangs  in  such  a  calm  way  that  one  can't  be  any- 
thing but  classic  in  it.  Since  I've  known  the  Persephone  I've 
learnt  how  to  live.  You  must  go  to  the  Hippodrome.  But 
what's  all  this  about  your  going  yachting  with  the  Adel- 
aide and  an  extraordinary  Cornish  genius?  What's  the 
matter?" 

The  last  words  came  out  in  a  suddenly  business-like  and 
almost  self-made  voice,  and  Margot's  deep  eyes,  full  hitherto 
of  a  conscious  calm,  supposed  to  be  Greek,  abruptly  darted 
questioning  fires  which  might  have  sprung  from  a  modern 
hussy. 

"D'you  like  him  so  much?"  continued  Margot,  before 
Charmian  had  time  to  answer. 

"You're  making  a  great  mistake,"  said  Charmian,  with 
airy  dignity.  "I  was  only  surprised  to  hear  that  Claude 
Heath  was  coming.  I  didn't  know  it.  I  understood  he 
had  refused  to  come.  He  always  refuses  everything.  How 
did  you  hear  of  him  ?" 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION          77 

"The  Adelaide  has  been  talking  about  him.  She  says 
he's  a  genius  who  hates  the  evil  world,  and  will  only  know 
her  and  your  mother,  and  that  he's  going  with  her  and  you 
and  Max  Elliot  to  the  Greek  Isles  on  one  condition — that 
nobody  else  is  to  be  asked  and  that  he  is  to  be  introduced  to  no 
one.  If  it's  really  the  Greek  Isles,  I  think  I  ought  to  be  taken. 
I  told  the  Adelaide  so,  but  she  said  Claude  Heath  would  rather 
die  than  have  a  girl  like  me  with  him  on  the  yacht." 

"So  he  really  has  accepted?" 

"Evidently.    Now  you  don't  look  pleased." 

"Mr.  Heath's  Madretta's  friend,  not  mine,"  said  Charmian. 

"Really?  Then  your  mother  should  go  to  Greece.  Why 
did  the  Adelaide  ask  you?" 

"I  can't  imagine." 

"Now,  Charmian!" 

"I  assure  you,  Margot,  I  was  amazed  at  being  asked." 

"But  you  accepted." 

"I  wanted  to  get  out  of  this  weather." 

"With  a  Cornish  genius?" 

"Mr.  Heath  only  looks  at  middle-aged  married  women," 
said  Charmian.  "I  think  he  has  a  horror  of  girls.  He  and 
I  don't  get  on  at  all." 

"What  is  he  like?" 

"Plain  and  gaunt." 

"Is  his  music  really  so  wonderful?" 

"I've  never  heard  a  note  of  it." 

"Hasn't  your  mother?" 

With  difficulty  Charmian  kept  a  displeased  look  out  of 
her  face  as  she  answered  sweetly: 

"Once,  I  think.     But  she  has  said  very  little  about  it." 

At  this  moment  the  tragic  mask  of  Miss  Deans  was  seen 
in  a  doorway,  and  Margot  got  up  quickly. 

"There's  that  darling  Millie  from  Paris!" 

"Who?    Where?" 

"Millie  Deans,  the  only  real  actress  on  the  operatic  stage. 
Until  you've  seen  her  in  Crepe  de  Chine  you've  never  seen 
opera  as  it  ought  to  be.  Millie!  Millie!" 

She  went  rather  aggressively  toward  Miss  Deans,  for- 
getting her  calm  gown  for  the  moment. 


78          THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

So  Claude  Heath  had  accepted.  Charmian  concluded 
this  from  Margot  Drake's  remarks.  No  doubt  Mrs.  Shiffney 
had  received  his  answer  that  day-.  She  loved  giving  people 
the  impression  that  she  was  adventurous  and  knew  strange 
and  wonderful  beings  who  wouldn't  know  anyone  else.  So 
she  had  not  been  able  to  keep  silence  about  Claude  Heath  and 
the  Greek  Isles.  Charmian's  heart  bounded.  The  peculiar 
singing  of  Ferdinand  Rades,  which  had  upon  hearers  much  of 
the  effect  made  upon  readers  by  the  books  of  Pierre  Loti,  had 
excited  and  quickened  her  imagination.  Secretly  Charmian 
was  romantic,  though  she  seldom  seemed  so.  She  longed  after 
wonders,  and  was  dissatisfied  with  the  usual.  Yet  she  was 
capable  of  expecting  wonders  to  conform  to  a  standard  to 
which  she  was  accustomed.  There  was  much  conventionality 
in  her,  though  she  did  not  know  it.  "The  Brighton  tradition " 
was  not  a  mere  phrase  in  her  mother's  mouth.  Laughingly 
said  it  contained,  nevertheless,  particles  of  truth.  But  at  this 
moment  it  seemed  far  away  from  Charmian,  quite  foreign  to 
her.  The  Greek  Isles  and — 

Millie  Deans  had  stepped  upon  the  dais,  accompanied  by 
a  very  thin,  hectic  French  boy,  who  sat  down  at  the  piano. 
But  she  did  not  seem  inclined  to  sing.  She  looked  round, 
glanced  at  the  hectic  boy,  folded  her  hands  in  front  of  her,  and 
waited.  Max  Elliot  approached  with  his  genial  air  and  spoke 
to  her.  She  answered,  putting  her  dead-white  face  close  to  his. 
He  also  looked  round  the  room,  then  hurried  out.  There  was 
a  pause. 

"What  is  it?"  people  murmured,  turning  their  heads. 

Paul  Lane  bent  down  and  said  to  the  degagee  Duchess: 

"She  won't  sing  till  Mr.  Brett,  of  the  opera,  comes." 

His  lips  curled  in  a  sarcastic  smile. 

"What  a  fuss  they  all  make  about  themselves!"  returned 
the  Duchess.  "It's  a  hard  face." 

"Millie's?  She's  in  a  violent  temper.  You'll  see;  until 
Mr.  Brett  comes  she  won't  open  her  mouth." 

Miss  Deans  stood  rigid,  with  her  hands  always  crossed  in 
front  of  her  and  her  eyes  watching  the  door.  The  boy  at  the 
piano  moved  his  hands  over  the  keys  without  producing  any 
sound.  There  was  the  ripple  of  a  laugh,  and  Mrs.  Shiffney 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION          79 

came  carelessly  in  with  Rades,  followed  by  a  small,  stout  man, 
Mr.  Brett,  and  Max  Elliot.  When  he  saw  Miss  Deans  the 
stout  man  looked  humorously  sarcastic.  Max  Elliot  wanted 
Mrs.  Shiffney  to  come  near  to  the  dais,  but  she  refused,  and 
sat  down  by  the  door.  Rades  whispered  to  her  and  she  laughed 
again.  Max  Elliot  went  close  to  Millie  Deans.  She  frowned 
at  her  accompanist,  who  began  to  play,  looking  sensitive.  Mr. 
Brett  leaned  against  the  wall  looking  critical. 

Charmian  was  in  one  of  the  balconies  now  with  a  young 
man.  She  saw  her  mother  opposite  to  her  with  Sir  Hilary 
Burnington,  looking  down  on  the  singer  and  the  crowd,  and 
she  thought  her  mother  must  have  heard  something  very  sad. 
Millie  Deans  sang  an  aria  of  Mozart  in  a  fine,  steady,  and  warm 
soprano  voice.  Then  she  sang  two  morceaux  from  the  filmy 
opera,  Crdpe  de  Chine,  by  a  young  Frenchman,  which  she  had 
helped  to  make  the  rage  of  Paris.  Her  eyes  were  often  on  Mr. 
Brett,  commanding  him  to  be  favorable,  yet  pleading  with 
him  too. 

As  Mrs.  Mansfield  looked  down  she  was  feeling  sad.  The 
crowded  room  beneath  her  was  a  small  epitome  of  the  world 
to  which  talent  and  genius  are  flung,  to  be  kissed  or  torn  to 
pieces,  perhaps  to  be  kissed  then  torn  to  pieces.  And  too 
often  the  listeners  felt  that  they  were  superior  to  those  they 
listened  to,  because  to  them  an  appeal  was  made,  because  they 
were  in  the  position  of  judges.  "Do  we  like  her?  Shall  we 
take  her?"  Many  faces  expressed  such  questions  as  this 
strange-looking  woman  sang.  "What  does  Mr.  Brett  think 
of  her?"  and  eyes  turned  toward  the  stout  man  leaning 
against  the  wall. 

Did  not  Claude  Heath  do  well  to  keep  out  of  it  all? 

The  question  passed  through  Mrs.  Mansfield's  mind  as  she 
felt  the  humiliation  of  the  yoke  which  the  world  fastens  on  the 
artist's  neck.  She  had  come  to  care  for  Heath  almost  a  little 
jealously,  but  quite  unselfishly.  She  was  able  to  care  un- 
selfishly, because  she  had  given  all  of  herself  that  was  passion- 
ate long  ago  to  the  man  who  was  dead.  Never  again  could  she 
be  in  love.  Never  again  could  she  desire  the  closest  relation 
woman  can  be  in*;. with  man.  But  she  felt  protective  toward 
Heath.  She  had  the  strong  instinct,  to  shelter  his  young  aus- 


80         THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

terity,  his  curious  talent,  his  reserve,  and  his  sensitiveness. 
And  she  was  thinking  now,  "If  he  goes  yachting  with  Ade- 
laide! If  he  allows  Max  to  exploit  him !  If  he  becomes  known, 
perhaps  the  fashion,  even  the  rage1~  And  if  they  get  sick  of 
him?"  Yet  what  is  talent  for?  Why  is  it  given  to  any  man? 
Surely  to  be  used,  displayed,  bestowed. 

There  was  a  hard  and  cruel  expression  on  many  of  the 
listening  faces  below.  Singers  were  there,  appraising;  pro- 
fessional critics  coldly  judging,  jaded,  sated,  because  they  had 
heard  too  much  of  the  wonderful  sounds  of  the  world;  men 
like  Paul  Lane,  by  temperament  inclined  to  sneer  and  con- 
demn; women  who  loved  to  be  in  camps  and  whose  idea  of 
setting  an  artist  on  high  was  to  tear  all  other  artists  down. 
Battlefields!  Battlefields!  Mrs.  Mansfield  was  painfully 
conscious  that  the  last  thing  to  be  found  in  any  circle  of  Me  is 
peace.  Too  often  there  was  poison  in  the  cup  which  the 
artist  had  to  drink.  Too  often  to  attract  the  gaze  of  the 
world  was  to  attract  and  concentrate  many  of  the  floating 
hatreds  of  the  world.  The  little  old  house  near  Petersburg 
Place  was  a  quiet  refuge.  Mrs.  Searle,  a  kindly  dragon,  kept 
the  door.  Yellow-haired  Fan  was  the  fairy  within.  The 
faded  curtains  of  orange  color  shut  out  very  much  that  was 
black  and  horrid.  And  there  the  Kings  of  the  East  passed  by. 
But  there,  also,  the  sea  was  as  the  blood  of  a  dead  man. 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  of  her?"  Sir  Hilary  was 
speaking. 

He  had  a  face  like  a  fairly  good-natured  bulldog,  and,  like 
the  bulldog,  looked  as  if,  once  fastened  on  an  enemy,  he  would 
not  easily  be  detached. 

"I  think  it's  a  very  beautiful  voice  and  remarkably 
trained." 

"Do  you?  Well,  now  I  don't  think  she's  a  patch  on 
Dantini." 

The  Admiral  was  wholly  unmusical,  but,  having  married  an 
accomplished  violinist,  he  was  inclined  to  lay  down  the  law 
about  music. 

"Don't  you?" 

"No,  I  don't.     No  lightness,  no  agility;  too  heavy." 

"There  are  holes  in  her  voice,"  observed  a  stout  musical 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION          81 

critic  standing  beside  him.  "The  middle  register  is  all 
wrong." 

"That's  it,"  said  the  Admiral,  snapping  his  jaws.  "Holes 
in  the  voice  and  the — the  what  you  may  call  it  all  wrong." 

"I  wonder  what  Adelaide  Shiffney  thinks?"  said  a  small, 
dark,  and  shrewish-looking  woman  just  behind  them.  "I 
must  go  and  find  out." 

"My  wife  won't  have  her.  I'm  dead  certain  of  that," 
said  the  Admiral. 

"She  ought  to  start  again  with  De  Reszke,"  said  the  mu- 
sical critic,  puffing  out  his  fat  cheeks  and  looking  suddenly  like 
a  fish. 

"Well,  I  must  go  down.  It's  getting  late,"  said  Mrs. 
Mansfield. 

"It  isn't  a  real  soprano,"  said  someone  in  a  husky  voice. 
"It's  a  forced-up  mezzo." 

Beneath  them  Millie  Deans  was  standing  by  Mrs.  Shiffney, 
who  was  saying: 

"Charming!  No,  I  haven't  heard  Cr6pe  de  Chine.  I  don't 
care  much  for  Fournier's  music.  He  imitates  the  Russians. 
Such  a  pity!  Are  you  really  going  back  to-morrow?  Good- 
bye, then!  Now,  Rades,  be  amiable!  Give  us  Enigme." 
Mr.  Brett  had  disappeared. 

"No,  Mr.  Elliot,  it's  no  use  talking  to  me,  not  a  bit  of  use!" 
Millie  Deans  exclaimed  vehemently  in  the  hall  as  Rades  began 
Enigme  in  his  most  velvety  voice.  "London  has  no  taste, 
it  has  only  fashions.  In  Paris  that  man  is  not  a  singer  at  all. 
He  is  merely  a  diseur.  No  one  would  dream  of  putting  him 
in  a  programme  with  me." 

"But,  my  dear  Miss  Deans,  you  knew  he  was  singing  to- 
night. And  my  programmes  are  always  eclectic.  There  is  no 
intention — 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  eplectic,"  said  Millie  Deans,, 
whose  education  was  one-sided,  but  who  had  temperament 
and  talent,  and  also  a  very  strong  temper.  "But  I  do  know 
that  Mr.  Brett,  who  seems  to  rule  you  all  here,  is  as  ignorant 
of  music  as — as  a  carp,  isn't  it?  Isn't  it,  I  say!" 

"I  daresay  it  is.  But,  my  dear  Miss  Deans,  people  were 
delighted.  You  will  come  back,  you — " 

6 


82         THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

"Never!  He  means  to  keep  me  out.  I  can  see  it.  He 
has  that  Dantini  in  his  pocket.  A  woman  with  a  voice  like  a 
dwarf  in  a  gramophone!" 

At  this  moment,  perhaps  fortunately,  Miss  Deans's  hired 
electric  brougham  came  up,  and  Max  Elliot  got  rid  of  her. 

Although  she  had  lost  her  temper  Miss  Deans  had  not  lost 
her  shrewdness.  Mr.  Brett  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  con- 
fessed that  the  talent  of  Miss  Deans  did  not  appeal  to  him. 

"Her  singing  bored  me,"  was  the  verdict  of  Mrs.  Shiffney. 

And  many  of  Max  Elliot's  guests  found  that  they  had  been 
subject  to  a  similar  ennui  when  the  American  was  singing. 

"Poor  woman!"  thought  Mrs.  Mansfield,  who  was  un- 
prejudiced, and  who,  with  Max  Elliot  and  other  genuine 
musicians,  recognized  the  gifts  of  Miss  Deans. 

And  again  her  mind  went  to  Claude  Heath. 

"Better  to  keep  out  of  it!  Better  to  keep  out  of  it!"  a 
voice  said  within  her. 

And  apparently  Heath  was  of  one  mind  with  her  on  this 
matter. 

As  Mrs.  Mansfield  and  Charmian  were  going  away  they  met 
Mrs.  Shiffney  in  the  hall  with  Ferdinand,  who  was  holding  her 
cloak. 

"Oh,  Charmian!"  she  said,  turning  quickly,  with  the  cloak 
over  one  of  her  broad  shoulders.  "  I  heard  from  Claude  Heath 
to-day." 

"Did  you?"  said  Charmian  languidly,  looking  about  her 
at  the  crowd. 

"Yes.  He  can't  come.  His  mother's  got  a  cold  and  he 
doesn't  like  to  leave  her,  or  something.  And  he's  working 
very  hard  on  a  composition  that  nobody  is  ever  to  hear.  And 
— I  forget  what  else.  But  there  were  four  sides  of  excuses." 

She  laughed. 

"Poor  boy!  He  hasn't  much  savoir-faire.  Good-night! 
I'll  let  you  know  when  we  start." 

Her  eyes  pierced  Charmian. 

"Come,  Ferdinand!  No,  you  get  in  first.  I  hate  being 
passed  and  trodden  on  when  once  I'm  in,  and  I  take  up  so 
much  room." 

That  night,  when  Charmian  was  safely  in  her  bedroom  and 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION          83 

had  locked  the  door  against  imaginary  intruders,  she  cried, 
bitterly,  impetuously: 

"If  only  Rades  had  not  sung  Petite  Fille  de  Tombouctou!" 

That  song  seemed  to  have  put  the  finishing  touch  to  desires 
which  would  never  be  gratified.  Charmian  could  not  have 
explained  why.  But  such  music  was  cruel  when  Me  went 
wrong. 

"Why  won't  he  come?  Why  won't  he  come?"  she  mur- 
mured angrily. 

Then  she  looked  at  herself  in  the  glass,  and  thought  she 
realized  that  from  the  first  she  had  hated  Claude  Heath. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

A    FORTNIGHT  later  The  Wanderer  lay  at  anchor  in  the 

Z\  harbor  of  Algiers.    But  only  the  captain  and  some  of 

the  crew  were  on  board.    Mrs.  Shiffney,  Max  Elliot, 

and  Paul  Lane  had  gone  off  in  a  motor  to  Bou-Saada.    Alfred 

Waring,  the  extra  man  who  had  come  instead  of  Claude  Heath, 

had  run  over  to  Biskra  to  see  some  old  friends,  and  Charmian 

and  Susan  Fleet  were  at  the  Hotel  St.  George  at  Mustapha 

Superieur. 

Charmian  was  not  very  well.  The  passage  from  Marseilles 
had  been  rough,  and  she  had  suffered.  As  she  had  never 
before  seen  Algiers  she  had  got  out  of  the  expedition  to  Bou 
Saada.  And  Susan  Fleet  had,  apparently,  volunteered  to 
stay  with  her,  but  had  really  stayed,  as  she  did  a  great  many 
things  when  she  was  with  Mrs.  Shiffney,  because  there  was  no 
one  else  to  do  it  and  Mrs.  Shiffney  had  told  her  so. 

Nevertheless,  though  she  wanted  to  see  Bou-Saada,  she 
was  reconciled  to  her  lot.  She  liked  Charmian  very  well, 
though  she  knew  her  very  little.  And  she  had  the  great 
advantage  in  life — so,  at  least,  she  considered  it — of  being  a 
theosophist. 

Mrs.  Shiffney  had  not  known  how  to  put  Charmian  off. 
After  hearing  again  Petite  Fille  de  Tonibouctou  she  had 
felt  she  must  get  out  of  Europe,  if  only  for  five  minutes.  So 
she  had  made  the  best  of  things.  And  Charmian  would  rather 
have  died  than  have  given  up  going  after  Claude  Heath's 
refusal  to  go.  A  run  over  to  Algiers  was  nothing.  They  could 
be  back  in  England  in  two  or  three  weeks.  So  The  Wanderer 
had  gone  round  to  Marseilles,  and  the  party  of  six  had  come 
out  by  train  to  meet  her  there. 

Susan  Fleet  was  one  of  those  capable  and  intelligent  women 
who  are  apt  to  develop  sturdiness  if  they  do  not  marry  and 
have  children.  Susan  had  not  married,  and  at  the  age  of 

84 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION          85 

forty-nine  and  nine  months  she  was  sturdy.  She  wore  coats 
and  skirts  whenever  they  could  be  worn,  and  some  people 
professed  to  believe  that  she  slept  in  them.  Her  one  ex- 
travagance was  the  wearing  of  white  gloves  which  fitted  her 
hands  perfectly.  Her  collars  were  immaculate,  and  she  always 
looked  almost  startlingly  neat.  All  her  dresses  were  "off  the 
ground."  In  appearance  she  was  plain,  but  she  was  not  ugly. 
She  had  a  fairly  good  nose  and  mouth,  but  they  were  never 
admired,  thick  brown  hair  which  no  one  ever  noticed,  and  a 
passable  complexion.  Her  eyes  were  her  worst  feature.  They 
looked  as  if  they  were  loose  in  her  head  and  might  easily  drop 
out,  and  they  were  rather  glazed  than  luminous,  and  were 
indefinite  in  color.  But  they  were  eyes  which  reassured 
doubtful  people,  eyes  which  could  be,  and  were,  trusted  "on 
sight,"  eyes  which  had  seen  a  good  deal  but  which  could  never 
take  nastiness  into  the  soul  to  its  harming.  Her  father  was 
dead,  and  she  had  a  mother  who,  at  the  age  of  sixty-seven — 
she  had  really  been  married  at  sixteen — was  living  as  com- 
panion at  Folkestone  with  an  old  lady  of  eighty-two. 

Susan  Fleet  was  one  of  those  absolutely  unsycophantic  and 
naturally  well-bred  persons  who  are  often  liked  by  those  "at 
the  top  of  the  tree, "  and  who  sometimes,  without  beauty,  great 
talent,  money,  or  other  wordly  advantages,  and  without  any 
thought  of  striving,  achieve  "positions"  which  everybody 
recognizes.  Susan  had  a  "position."  She  knew  and  was  liked 
by  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  important  people,  had  been  about, 
had^stayed  in  houses  with  Royalties,  and  had  always  remained 
just  herself,  perfectly  natural,  quite  unpretending,  and  wholly 
free  from  every  grain  of  nonsense.  "There's  no  nonsense 
about  Susan  Fleet!"  many  said  approvingly,  especially  these 
who  themselves  were  full  of  it.  She  possessed  one  shining 
advantage,  a  constitutional  inability  to  be  a  snob,  and  she  was 
completely  ignorant  of  possessing  it.  Mrs.  Shiffney  and  vari- 
ous other  very  rich  women  could  not  do  without  Susan.  Un- 
like her  mother,  she  had  no  permanent  post.  But  she  was 
always  being  "wanted,"  and  was  well  paid,  not  always  in 
money  only,  for  the  excellent  services  she  was  able  to  render. 
She  never  made  any  secret  of  her  poverty,  though  she  never 
put  it  forward,  and  it  was  understood  by  everyone  that  she  had 


86          THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

to  earn  her  own  living.  Many  years  ago  she  had  qualified  to 
do  this  by  mastering  various  homely  accomplishments.  She 
was  a  competent  accountant,  an  excellent  typewriter,  a  lucid 
writer  of  letters,  knew  how  to  manage  servants,  and  was  a 
mistress  or  the  art  of  travelling.  When  looking  out  trains  she 
never  made  a  mistake.  She  was  never  sea  or  train  sick,  never 
lost  her  temper  or  her  own  or  other  people's  luggage,  had  a 
perfect  sense  of  time  without  being  aggressively  punctual,  and 
seemed  totally  unaffected  by  changes  of  climate.  And  she 
knew  nothing  about  the  meaning  of  the  word  shyness. 

When  the  big  motor  had  gone  off  with  its  trio  to  desert 
places  Charmian  suddenly  realized  the  unexpectedness  of  her 
situation — alone  above  Algiers  with  a  woman  who  was  almost 
a  stranger.  This  scarcely  seemed  like  yachting.  They  had 
come  up  to  the  hotel  because  Mrs.  Shifmey  always  stayed  at 
an  hotel,  if  there  was  a  good  one,  when  the  yacht  was  in  harbor, 
"to  make  a  change."  It  was  full  of  English  and  Americans, 
but  they  knew  nobody,  and,  having  two  sitting-rooms,  had  no 
reason  to  seek  public  rooms  where  acquaintances  are  made. 
Charmian  wondered  how  long  Mrs.  Shiffney  would  stay  at 
Bou  Saada. 

"Back  to-morrow!"  she  had  said  airily  as  she  waved  her 
hand.  The  assertion  meant  next  week  if  only  she  were  suffi- 
ciently amused. 

Charmian  had  been  really  stricken  on  the  stormy  voyage, 
and  still  had  a  sensation  of  oppression  in  the  head,  of  vague- 
ness, of  smallness,  and  of  general  degradation.  She  felt  also 
terribly  depressed,  like  one  under  sentence  not  of  death,  but 
of  something  very  disagreeable.  And  when  Susan  Fleet  said 
to  her  in  a  chest  voice,  "Do  you  want  to  do  anything  this 
afternoon?"  she  answered: 

"I'll  keep  quiet  to-day.  I'll  sit  in  the  garden.  But, 
please,  don't  bother  about  me." 

"I'll  come  and  sit  in  the  garden,  too,"  said  Miss  Fleet  in  a 
calm  and  business-like  manner. 

Charmian  thought  she  was  going  to  add,  "And  bring  my 
work  with  me."  But  she  did  not. 

On  the  first  terrace  there  were  several  people  in  long  chairs 
looking  lazy;  women  with  picture  papers,  men  smoking,  old 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION          87 

buffers  talking  about  politics  and  Arabs.  Charmian  glanced  at 
them  and  instinctively  went  on,  descending  toward  a  quieter 
part  of  the  prettily  and  cleverly  arranged  garden.  The 
weather  was  beautiful,  warm,  but  not  sultry.  Already  she 
was  conscious  of  a  feeling  of  greater  ease. 

"Shall  we  sit  here?"  she  said,  pointing  to  two  chairs  under 
some  palm  trees  by  a  little  table. 

"  Yes.    Why  not?  "  returned  Susan  Fleet. 

They  sat  down. 

"Do  you  feel  better?"  asked  Susan. 

"I  shall." 

"It  must  be  dreadful  being  ill  at  sea.     I  never  am." 

"And  you  have  travelled  a  great  deal,  haven't  you?" 

"Yes,  I  have.  I  often  go  with  Adelaide.  Once  we  went 
to  India." 

"Was  it  there  you  became  a  Theosophist?" 

"That  had  something  to  do  with  it,  I  suppose.  When 
we  were  at  Benares  Adelaide  thought  she  would  like  to  live 
there.  The  day  after  she  thought  so  she  found  we  must  go 
away." 

Miss  Fleet  carefully  peeled  off  her  white  gloves  and  leaned 
back.  Her  odd  eyes  seemed  to  drop  in  their  sockets,  as  if 
they  were  trying  to  tumble  out. 

"Isn't  it — "  Charmian  began,  and  stopped  abruptly. 

"Yes?" 

"I  don't  know  what  I  was  going  to  say." 

"Perhaps  a  great  bore  not  to  be  one's  own  mistress?" 
suggested  Miss  Fleet,  composedly. 

"Something  of  that  sort  perhaps." 

"Oh,  no!  I'm  accustomed  to  it.  Freedom  is  a  phrase. 
I'm  quite  as  free  as  Adelaide.  It's  usually  a  great  mistake 
to  pity  servants." 

"And  oneself?  I  suppose  you  would  say  it  was  a  great 
mistake  to  pity  oneself?" 

"I  never  do  it,"  replied  Miss  Fleet. 

She  had  charming  hands.  One  of  them  lay  on  the  little 
table  with  a  beam  of  the  sun  on  it. 

"Perhaps  you  haven't  great  desires?  Perhaps  you  don't 
want  many  things?" 


88          THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

"I  suppose  I've  been  like  most  women  in  that  respect. 
But  I  shall  be  fifty  almost  directly." 

"How  frightful!"  was  Charmian's  mental  comment. 

"No,  it  isn't." 

"Isn't  what?"  said  Charmian,  startled. 

"It  isn't  at  all  awful  to  be  fifty,  or  any  other  age,  if  you 
accept  it  quietly  as  inevitable.  But  everything  one  kicks 
against  hurts  one,  of  course.  I  expect  to  pass  a  very  pleasant 
day  on  my  fiftieth  birthday." 

Charmian  put  her  chin  in  her  hand. 

"How  did  you  know  what  I  thought?" 

"  A  girl  of  your  age  would  be  almost  certain  to  think  some- 
thing of  that  kind." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so." 

Charmian  sighed,  and  then  suddenly  felt  rather  angry,  and 
lifted  her  chin. 

"But  surely  I  need  not  be  exactly  like  every  other  girl  of 
twenty-one!"  she  exclaimed,  with  much  more  vivacity. 

"You  aren't.  No  girl  is.  But  you  all  think  it  must  be 
dreadful  to  be  a  moneyless  spinster  of  fifty.  I  believe,  for  my 
part,  that  there's  many  a  vieille  fille  who  is  not  particularly 
sorry  for  herself  or  for  the  man  who  didn't  want  to  marry 
her." 

Miss  Fleet  was  smiling. 

"But  I'm  not  a  pessimist  as  regards  marriage,"  she  added. 
"And  I  think  men  are  quite  as  good  as  women,  and  quite 
as  bad." 

"How  calm  you  are!" 

"Why  not?" 

"  I  could  never  be  like  that." 

"Perhaps  when  you  are  fifty." 

"Not  if  I'm  unmarried!"  said  Charmian,  with  a  bluntness, 
a  lack  of  caution  very  rare  in  her. 

"I  don't  think  you  will  be,  unless  you  go  on  before  you  are 
fifty." 

Charmian  gazed  at  Miss  Fleet,  and  was  conscious  that  she 
herself  was  entirely  concentrated  on  the  present  life;  she  was 
a  good  girl,  she  had  principles,  even  sometimes  desires  not  free 
from  nobility.  She  believed  in  a  religion — the  Protestant 


jTHE  WAY  OF  AMBITION          89 

religion  it  happened  to  be.  And  yet — yes,  certainly — she 
was  absolutely  concentrated  on  the  present  life.  She  even 
felt  as  if  it  were  somehow  physically  impossible  for  her  to  be 
anything  else.  To  "go  on"  before  she  was  fifty!  What  a 
horror  in  that  idea!  To  "go  on"  at  all,  ever — how  strange, 
how  dreadful!  She  was  silent  for  some  minutes,  with  her 
pretty  head  against  the  back  of  a  chair. 

An  Arab  dragoman  went  by  among  the  trees.  The  stran- 
gled yelp  of  a  motor-car  rose  out  of  a  cloud  of  white  dust  at 
the  bottom  of  the  garden.  The  faint  cry  of  a  siren  came  up 
from  the  distant  sea  where  The  Wanderer  lay  at  rest.  And 
suddenly  Charmian  thought,  "When  am  I  going  to  be  here 
again?" 

"Do  you  ever  feel  you  have  lived  before  in  some  place  when 
you  visit  it  for  the  first  time?"  she  said,  moving  her  head  from 
the  back  of  her  chair. 

"I  did  once." 

"Do  you  ever  feel  you  will  live  in  a  place  that's  new  to 
you,  that  you  have  no  connection  with,  and  that  you  have 
only  come  to  for  a  day  or  two?" 

"I  can't  say  I  do." 

"I  suppose  we  all  have  lots  of  absurd  fancies." 

"I  don't  think  I  do,"  responded  Miss  Fleet,  quite  without 
arrogance. 

"I — I  wish  you'd  tell  me  where  you  got  that  coat  and 
skirt,"  said  Charmian. 

"I  will.  I  got  it  at  Folkestone.  I'll  give  you  the  address 
when  we  go  on  board  again.  My  mother  lives  at  Folkestone. 
She  is  a  companion  to  a  dear  old  Mrs.  Simpkins,  so  I  go  down 
there  whenever  I  have  time." 

One's  mother  companion  to  a  dear  old  Mrs.  Simpkins! 
How  extraordinary!  And  why  did  it  make  Charmian  feel 
as  if  she  were  almost  fond  of  Susan  Fleet? 

"And  I  get  really  well-cut  things  for  a  very  small  price 
there,  so  I'm  lucky." 

"I  think  you  are  lucky  in  another  way,"  hazarded  Charmian. 

"Yes?" 

"To  be  as  you  are." 

After  that  day  in  the  garden  Charmian  knew  that  she  was 


90         THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

going  to  be  fond  of  Susan  Fleet.  Mrs.  Shiffney,  of  course, 
did  not  return  on  the  following  afternoon. 

"I  daresay  she'll  be  away  for  a  week,"  Susan  said.  "If 
you  feel  better  we  might  go  and  see  the  town  and  visit  some  of 
the  villas.  There  are  several  that  are  beautiful." 

Quite  eagerly  Charmian  acquiesced.  But  she  soon  had 
reason  to  be  sorry  that  she  had  done  so.  For  much  that  she 
saw  increased  her  misery.  Boldly  now  she  applied  that  word 
to  her  condition,  moved  perhaps  to  be  at  last  frank  with  her- 
self by  the  frankness  of  her  quite  unintrusive  companion. 
Algiers  affected  her  somewhat  as  the  Petite  Fille  de  Tombouctou 
had  affected  her,  but  much  more  powerfully.  This  was  ex- 
actly how  she  put  it  to  herself:  it  made  her  feel  that  she  was 
violently  in  love  with  Claude  Heath.  What  a  lie  that  had  been 
before  the  mirror  after  Max  Elliot's  party.  How  dreadful  it 
was  to  walk  in  these  exquisite  and  tropical  gardens,  to  stand 
upon  these  terraces,  to  wander  over  these  marble  pavements 
and  beneath  these  tiled  colonnades,  to  hear  these  fountains 
singing  under  orange  trees,  to  see  these  far  stretches  of  tur- 
quoise and  deep  blue  water,  to  watch  Arabs  on  white  roads 
passing  noiselessly  by  night  under  a  Heaven  thick  with  stars, 
and  to  know  "He  is  not  here  and  I  am  nothing  to  him!" 

Charmian's  romantic  tendency,  her  sense  of,  and  desire 
for,  wonder  were  violently  stirred  by  the  new  surroundings. 
She  was  painfully  affected.  She  began  to  feel  almost  desper- 
ate. That  terrible  sensation,  known  perhaps  in  its  frightening 
nightmare  fulness  only  to  youth,  "My  life  is  done,  all  real  life 
is  at  an  end  for  me,  because  I  cannot  be  linked  with  my  other 
half,  because  I  have  found  it,  but  it  has  not  found  me!"  be- 
sieged, assailed  her.  It  shook  her,  as  neurasthenia  shakes  its 
victim,  squeezing  as  if  with  fierce  and  powerful  hands  till  the 
blood  seems  to  be  driven  out  of  the  arteries.  It  changed  the 
world  for  her,  making  of  beauty  a  phenomenon  to  terrify.  She 
looked  at  loveliness,  and  it  sent  a  lacerating  ache  all  through 
her,  because  only  the  half  looked  at  it  and  not  the  whole,  some 
hideous  astral  shape,  not  the  joyous,  powerful  body  meant 
for  the  life  of  this  splendid  world,  at  home  in  the  atmosphere 
specially  created  for  it.  She  began  to  be  frightened  and  to 
think,  "But  what  can  I  do?  How  will  it  end?"  She  longed 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION          91 

to  do  something  active,  to  make  an  exertion,  and  struggle  out 
of  all  this  assailing  strangeness.  Like  one  attacked  in  a 
tunnel  by  claustrophobia,  she  had  an  impulse  to  dash  open 
doors  and  windows,  to  burst  arching,  solid  walls,  and  to  be 
elsewhere. 

At  first  she  carefully  concealed  her  condition  from  Susan 
Fleet,  but  when  three  days  had  gone  by,  and  no  word  came 
from  Mrs.  Shiffney,  she  began  to  feel  that  fate  had  left  her  alone 
with  the  one  human  being  of  whom  she  could  make  a  confi- 
dante. Again  and  again  she  looked  furtively  at  Miss  Fleet's 
serene  and  practical  face,  and  wondered  what  effect  her  revela- 
tion would  have  upon  the  very  sensible  personality  it  indicated. 
"She'll  think  it  is  all  nonsense,  that  it  doesn't  matter  at  all!" 
thought  Charmian.  And  more  than  ever  she  wanted  to  tell 
Miss  Fleet.  In  self-restraint  she  became  violently  excited. 
Often  she  felt  on  the  verge  of  tears.  And  at  last,  very  suddenly 
and  without  premeditation,  she  spoke. 

They  were  visiting  "Djenan  el  Ali,"  the  lovely  villa  of  an 
acquaintance  of  Mrs.  Shiffney's  who  was  away  in  Europe. 
Miss  Fleet  had  been  there  before  and  knew  the  servants,  who 
gladly  gave  her  permission  to  show  Charmian  everything. 
After  wandering  through  the  house,  which  was  a  pure  gem  of 
Arab  architecture,  five  hundred  years  old,  and  in  excellent 
preservation,  they  descended  into  the  garden,  which  was  on 
the  slope  of  the  hill  over  which  the  houses  of  Mustapha  Supe- 
rieur  are  scattered.  Here  no  sounds  of  voices  reached  them,  no 
tram  bells,  no  shrieks  from  motors  buzzing  along  the  white 
road  high  above  them.  The  garden  was  large  and  laid  out  with 
subtle  ingenuity.  The  house  was  hidden  away  from  the  world 
that  was  so  near. 

Miss  Fleet  strolled  on,  descending  by  winding  paths,  closely 
followed  by  Charmian,  till  she  came  to  a  sheet  of  artificial 
water,  whose  uneven  banks  were  covered  with  masses  of 
azaleas,  rhododendrons,  bamboos,  and  flowering  shrubs.  In 
the  midst  of  this  lake  there  was  a  tiny  island,  just  big  enough 
to  give  room  for  the  growth  of  one  gigantic  date  palm,  and  for 
a  mass  of  arum  lilies  from  which  it  rose  towering  toward  the 
delicate  blue  of  the  cloudless  sky.  The  lilies  and  the  palm — 
they  were  the  island,  round  which  slept  greenish-yellow 


92          THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

water  guarded  by  the  azaleas,  the  rhododendrons,  the  bamboos, 
and  the  shrubs.  And  on  the  path  where  Charmian  and  Miss 
Fleet  stood  there  was  a  long  pergola  of  roses,  making  a  half- 
moon. 

Charmian  stood  still  and  looked.  The  ground  formed  a 
sort  of  basin  sheltering  the  little  lake.  Even  the  white  Arab 
house  was  hidden  from  it  by  a  screen  of  trees.  The  island,  a 
wonderfully  clever  thing,  attained  by  artificiality  a  sort  of 
strange  exoticism  which  almost  intoxicated  Charmian.  Per- 
haps nothing  wholly  natural  could  have  affected  her  in  quite 
the  same  way.  There  was  something  of  the  art  of  a  Ferdinand 
Rades  in  the  art  which  had  created  that  island,  had  set  it  just 
where  it  was.  It  had  been  planned  to  communicate  a  thrill 
to  highly  civilized  people,  to  suggest  to  them — what?  the 
Fortunate  Isles,  perhaps,  the  strange  isles,  which  they  dream 
of  when  they  have  a  moment  to  dream,  but  which  they  will 
certainly  never  see.  It  was  a  suggestive  little  isle.  One 
longed  to  sail  away,  to  land  on  it — and  then? 

Charmian  stood  as  if  hypnotized  by  it.  Her  eyes  went 
from  the  lilies  up  the  great  wrinkled  trunk  of  the  palm  to  its 
far  away  tufted  head,  then  travelled  down  to  the  big  white 
flowers.  She  sighed  and  gazed.  And  just  at  that  moment  she 
felt  that  she  was  going  to  tell  Susan  Fleet  immediately. 

On  the  shore  of  the  lake  there  was  a  seat. 

"I  must  tell  you  something,"  Charmian  said,  sinking  down 
on  it.  "  I'm  very  unhappy." 

She  looked  again  at  the  island  and  the  tears  came  to  her 
eyes. 

"He  never  has  even  let  me  hear  a  note  of  his  music!"  she 
thought,  connecting  Claude  Heath's  talent  with  the  lilies  and 
the  palm  in  some  strange  way  that  seemed  inevitable. 

Susan  Fleet  sat  down  and  folded  her  white-gloved  hands 
in  her  neat  tailor-made  lap. 

''I'm  sorry  for  that,"  she  said. 

"And  seeing  that  island,  seeing  all  these  lovely  places  and 
things  makes  it  so  much  worse.  I  didn't  know — till  I  came 
here.  At  least,  I  didn't  really  know  I  knew.  Oh,  Miss  Fleet, 
how  happy  I  could  be  here  if  I  wasn't  so  dreadfully  wretched." 

A  sort  of  wave  of  desperation — it  seemed  a  hot  wave — 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION          93 

surged  through  Charmian.  All  the  strangeness  of  Claude 
Heath  flowed  upon  her  and  receded  from  her,  leaving  her  in  a 
sort  of  dreadful  acrid  dryness. 

"Surely,"  she  said,  "when  you  are  in  places  like  this  you 
must  feel  that  nothing  is  of  any  real  use  if  one  has  it  alone." 

"But  I'm  with  you  now,"  returned  Miss  Fleet,  evidently 
wishing  to  give  Charmian  a  chance  to  regain  her  reserve. 

"With  me!  What's  the  use  of  that?  You  must  know 
what  I  mean." 

"I  suppose  you  mean  a  man." 

Charmian  blushed. 

"That  sounds — oh,  well,  how  can  we  help  it?  It  is  not 
our  fault.  We  have  to  be  so,  even  if  we  hate  it.  And  I  do 
hate  it.  I  don't  want  to  care  about  him.  I  never  have.  He's 
not  in  my  set.  He  doesn't  know  anyone  I  know,  or  do  any- 
thing I  do,  or  care  for  almost  anything  I  care  for — perhaps. 
But  I  feel  I  could  do  such  things  for  him,  that  he  will  never 
do  for  himself.  And  I  want  to  do  them.  I  must  do  them,  but 
he  will  never  let  me." 

"I  hope  he's  a  gentleman.  I  don't  believe  in  mixing 
classes,  simply  because  it  seems  to  me  that  one  class  never 
really  understands  another,  not  at  all  because  one  class  isn't 
just  as  good  as  another." 

"Of  course  he's  a  gentleman.  Mrs.  Shiffney  asked  him  to 
come  on  the  yacht." 

"Oh!    Mr.  Heath!"  observed  Miss  Fleet. 

Charmian  thought  she  detected  a  slight  change  in  the  deep 
chest  tone  of  her  companion's  voice. 

"D'you  know  him?"  she  asked,  almost  sharply. 

"No." 

"Have  you  seen  him?" 

"No,  never.  I  only  heard  that  he  might  be  coming  from 
Adelaide,  and  then  that  he  wasn't  coming." 

"He  knew  I  was  coming  and  he  refused  to  come.  Isn't 
it  degrading?" 

"Is  he  a  great  friend  of  yours?" 

"No,  but  he  is  of  my  mother's.  What  must  you  think 
of  me?  What  do  you  think  of  me?" 

Charmian  put  her  hand  impulsively  on  Miss  Fleet's  arm. 


94         THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

"I  didn't  know  till  I  came  here.  I  thought  I  disliked  him, 
I  almost  thought  I  hated  him." 

"That's  always  a  bad  sign,  I  believe,"  said  Miss  Fleet. 

"Yes,  I  know.  But  he  doesn't^hate  me.  He  doesn't  think 
about  me.  He's  mother's  friend  and  not  even  my  enemy. 
Do  tell  me,  Miss  Fleet — or  may  I  call  you  Susan  to-day?" 

"Of  course,  and  to-morrow,  too." 

"Thank  you.  You've  seen  lots  of  people.  Do  you  think 
I  have  personality?  Do  you  think  I — am  I  just  like  everyone 
else?  That's  such  a  hideous  idea!  Have  I  anything  that 
stamps  me?  Am  I  a  little  different  from  all  the  other  girls — 
you  know,  in  our  sort  of  set?  Do  tell  me!" 

There  was  something  humble  in  her  quivering  eagerness 
that  quite  touched  Susan  Fleet. 

"No,  I  don't  think  you're  just  like  everyone  else." 

"You  aren't.  And  he  isn't.  He's  not  in  the  least  like 
any  other  man  I  ever  saw.  That's  the  dreadful  part  of  it. 
I  can't  imagine  why  I  care  for  him,  and  that's  why  I  know  I 
shall  never  care  for  anyone  else." 

"Perhaps  he  likes  you." 

"No,  no!  No,  I'm  sure  he  doesn't.  He  thinks,  like  every- 
one else,  that  I  have  nothing  particular  in  me.  But  it  isn't 
true.  Susan,  sometimes  we  know  a  thing  by  instinct — don't 
we?" 

"Certainly.  Instinct  is  often  the  experience  of  the  past 
working  within  us." 

"Well,  I  know  that  I  am  the  woman  who  could  make 
Claude  Heath  famous,  who  could  do  for  him  what  he  could 
never  do  for  himself.  He  has  genius,  I  believe.  Max  Elliot 
says  so.  And  I  feel  it  when  I'm  with  him.  But  he  has  no 
capacity  for  using  it,  as  it  ought  to  be  used,  to  dominate  the 
world.  He's  never  been  in  the  world.  He  knows,  and  wishes 
to  know,  nothing  of  it.  That's  absurd,  isn't  it?  We  ought 
to  give,  if  we  have  anything  extraordinary  to  give.  Oh,  if 
you  knew  how  I've  longed  and  pined  to  be  extraordinary!" 

"Extraordinary?     In  what  way?" 

"In  gifts,  in  talent!  I've  suffered  dreadfully  because  I 
simply  can't  endure  just  to  be  one  of  the  silly,  dull  crowd. 
But  lately — quite  lately — I've  begun  to  realize  what  I  could 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION          95 

be,  do.     I  could  be  the  perfect  wife  to  a  great  man.     Don't 
laugh  at  me!" 

"I'm  not  laughing." 

"Aren't  you?  You  are  a  dear!  I  knew  you  would  under- 
stand. You  see  I've  always  been  among  people  who  matter. 
I've  always  known  clever  men  who've  made  their  names.  I've 
always  breathed  in  the  atmosphere  of  culture.  I'm  at  home 
in  the  world.  I  know  how  to  take  people.  I  have  social 
capacities.  Now  he's  quite  different.  The  fact  is,  I  have  all 
he  hasn't.  And  he  has  what  I  haven't,  his  talent.  He's  re- 
markable. Anyone  would  feel  it  in  an  instant.  I  believe  he's 
a  great  man  manque  because  of  a  sort  of  kink  in  his  tempera- 
ment. And — I  know  that  I  could  get  rid  of  that  kink  if — " 

She  stopped.  The  tears  rushed  into  her  eyes.  "Oh,  isn't 
it  awful  to  be  madly  in  love  with  a  man  who  doesn't  care  for 
you?"  she  exclaimed,  almost  fiercely. 

"I'm  not,"  returned  Susan  Fleet,  quietly.  "But  I  dare- 
say it  is." 

"When  I  look  at  that  island—" 

Charmian  stopped  and  took  out  her  handkerchief.  After 
using  it  she  said,  in  a  way  that  made  Susan  think  of  a  fierce 
little  cat  spitting: 

"But  I  will  bring  out  what  is  in  me!  I  will  not  let  all  my 
capacities  go  to  rust." 

Quite  abruptly,  she  could  not  tell  why,  Charmian  felt  that 
there  was  a  dawning  of  hope  in  her  sky.  Her  depression 
seemed  to  lift  a  little.  She  was  conscious  of  her  youth,  of  her 
grace  and  charm,  her  prettiness,  her  intelligence.  She  was 
able  to  put  a  little  trust  in  them. 

"Susan,"  she  said,  clasping  her  companion's  left  hand, 
"the  other  day,  when  we  were  in  the  garden  of  the  hotel,  such 
a  strange  feeling  came  to  me.  I  couldn't  trust  it  then.  I 
thought  it  must  be  nonsense.  But  it  has  come  to  me  again. 
It  seems  somehow  to  be  connected  with  all  sorts  of  things — 
here." 

"Tell  me  what  it  is." 

"Yes,  I  must.  The  other  day  it  came  when  I  saw  the 
dragoman,  Mustapha  Ali,  walking  toward  the  hotel — when 
he  was  just  under  that  arch  of  pink  roses.  The  horn  of  a  motor 


96          THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

sounded  in  the  road,  and  the  white  dust  flew  up  in  a  cloud. 
Then  I  heard,  far  away,  the  siren  of  a  ship.  It  was  all  an 
impression  of  Algiers.  It  was  Algiers.  And  I  felt — I  shall 
be  here  again  with  him." 

She  gazed  at  Susan.    Romance  was  alight  in  her  long  eyes. 

"And  now,  when  I  look  at  that  island,  the  feeling  comes 
again.  It  seems  to  come  to  me  out  of  the  palm  trunk  and  the 
lilies,  almost  as  if  they  knew,  and  told  me." 

Susan  Fleet  looked  at  Charmian  with  a  new  interest. 

"It  may  be  so,"  she  said.  "Perhaps  part  of  your  destiny 
is  to  learn  through  that  man,  and  to  teach  him." 

"Oh,  Susan!    If  it  should  be!" 

Life  suddenly  seemed  glittering  with  wonder  to  Charmian, 
quivering  with  possibility. 

"But  you  must  learn  to  love,  if  you  are  to  do  any  real 
good." 

"Learn!    Why,  I've  just  told  you—" 

"No,  no.  You  don't  quite  understand  me.  Our  personal 
loves  must  be  expanded.  They  must  become  universal.  We 
must  overflow  with  love." 

Charmian  stared.  This  very  quiet,  very  neat,  and  very 
practical  woman  had  astonished  her. 

"Do  you?"  she  almost  blurted  out. 

"It's  very,  very  difficult.  But  I  wish  to  and  try  to.  Do 
you  know,  I  think  perhaps  that  is  why  you  have  told  me  all 
this." 

"Perhaps  it  is,"  said  Charmian.  "I  could  never  have  told 
it  to  anyone  else.'^ 


CHAPTER  IX 

JUST  before  Charmian  left  England  Mrs.  Mansfield  had 
begun  to  suspect  her  secret.  Already  from  time  to  time  she 
had  wondered  whether  Charmian  refused  to  accept  Claude 
Heath,  as  she  had  accepted  all  the  other  habitues  of  the  house, 
because  she  really  liked  him  much  better  than  she  liked  them. 
She  had  wondered  and  she  had  said,  "No,  it  is  not  so."  Had 
she  not  been  less  than  frank  with  herself,  and  for  an  under 
reason  which  made  her  reluctant  to  see  truth?  She  scarcely 
knew.  But  when  Charmian  was  gone  and  her  mother  was 
quite  alone,  she  felt  almost  sure  that  she  had  to  face  a  fact 
very  unpleasant  to  her.  There  had  been  something  in  the 
girl's  eyes  as  she  said  good-bye,  a  slight  hardness,  a  lurking 
defiance,  something  about  her  lips,  something  even  in  the 
sound  of  her  voice  which  had  troubled  Mrs.  Mansfield,  which 
continued  to  trouble  her  while  Charmian  was  away. 

Charmian  in  love  with  Claude  Heath! 

It  seemed  to  the  mother  in  those  first  moments  of  contem- 
plation that,  if  she  were  right  in  her  surmise,  Charmian  could 
scarcely  have  set  her  affections  on  a  man  less  suited  to  enter 
into  her  life,  less  likely  to  make  her  happy. 

Charmian  belonged  to  a  certain  world  not  merely  because 
she  was  born  in  it,  and  had  always  lived  in  it,  but  by  tempera- 
ment, by  character.  Essentially  she  was  of  it.  She  could 
surely  never  be  happy  in  the  life  led  by  Claude  Heath.  Could 
Claude  Heath  be  happy  in  the  sort  of  life  led  by  her? 

Abruptly  Mrs.  Mansfield  felt  as  if  she  did  not  really  know 
Heath  very  well.  A  great  many  things  about  him  she  knew. 
But  how  much  of  him  was  beyond  her  ken.  She  was  not  even 
sure  how  he  regarded  Charmian.  Now  she  wished  very  much 
to  be  more  clear  about  that. 

Among  her  many  friends  Heath  stood  apart,  and  for  this 
reason :  all  the  other  men  of  talent  whom  she  knew  intimately 
were  in  the  same  set,  or  belonged  to  sets  which  overlapped  and 
7  97 


98         THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

intermingled.  They  were  men  who  were  making,  or  had  made, 
their  names;  men  who  knew,  and  were  known  by,  her  friends 
and  acquaintances,  who  needed  no  explanation,  who  were 
thoroughly  "in  it."  Only  Heath  was  outside,  was  unknown, 
was  not  taking  an  active  part  in  the  battle  of  art  or  of  life. 
And  this  fact  gave  him  a  certain  strangeness,  not  free  from 
romance,  gave  him  a  peculiar  value  in  Mrs.  Mansfield's  eyes. 
She  secretly  cherished  the  thought  of  his  individuality.  She 
could  not  wish  it  changed.  But  she  knew  very  well  that 
though  such  an  individuality  might  attract  her  child,  indeed, 
she  feared,  had  attracted  Charmian,  yet  Charmian,  if  she  had 
any  influence  over  it,  would  not  be  satisfied  to  let  it  alone,  to 
leave  it  quietly  to  its  own  natural  development.  Charmian 
would  never  let  any  plant  that  belonged  to  her  grow  in  dark- 
ness. She  understood  well  enough  the  many  clever  men  who 
frequented  the  house,  men  with  ambitions  which  they  were 
gratifying,  men  who  were  known,  or  who  wished  and  intended 
to  be  known,  men,  as  a  rule,  who  were  fighting,  or  who  had 
fought,  hard  battles.  To  several  of  these  men  Charmian  could 
have  made  an  excellent  wife. 

But  if  she  had  set  her  affections  on  Heath  she  had  made  a 
sad  mistake.  His  peculiarity  of  temperament  was  in  accord 
surely  with  nothing  in  Charmian.  That  very  fact,  perhaps, 
had  grasped  her  attention,  had  excited  her  curiosity,  even 
stirred  sentiment  within  her.  Having  perceived  a  gulf  she 
had  longed  to  bridge  it,  to  set  her  feet  on  the  farther  side. 
Mrs.  Mansfield  was  glad  that  Charmian  was  away.  Hitherto 
she  had  cultivated  the  friendship  with  Heath  without  arriere 
pensee.  Now  she  was  more  conscious  in  it.  Her  great  love 
of  her  only  child  made  her  wish  to  study  Heath. 

The  more  she  studied  him  the  more  she  hoped  that  her  guess 
about  Charmian  had  been  wrong,  and  yet  the  more  she  studied 
him  the  better  she  liked  him.  There  was  an  intensity  in  him 
that  captivated  her  intense  mind,  an  unworldliness  that  her 
soul  approved.  His  lack  of  social  ambition,  of  all  desire  to  be 
rich  and  prosperous,  refreshed  her.  She  compared  him  secretly 
with  other  men  of  great  talent.  Some  of  them  were  not  greedy 
for  money,  but  even  they  were  greedy  for  fame,  were  almost 
fearfully  solicitous  about  their  "position,"  if  not  their  social 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION          99 

position  then  their  position  in  the  artistic  world.  Jealousies 
accompanied  them,  and  within  them  were  jealousies.  They 
had  not  only  the  desire  to  build,  but  also  the  desire  to  pull 
down,  to  obliterate,  to  make  ruins  and  dust. 

Among  all  the  men  whom  she  knew,  Claude  Heath  was  the 
only  one  who  was  alone  with  his  art,  and  who  wished  to  remain 
alone  with  the  thing  he  loved.  There  was  a  purity  in  the 
situation  which  delighted  Mrs.  Mansfield.  Yet  she  realized 
that  Heath  was  a  man  who  might  be  won  away  from  that 
which  was  best  in  him,  from  that  which  he  almost  sternly 
clung  to  and  cherished.  And  one  day  he  made  her  aware  that 
he  knew  this. 

They  went  to  a  concert  together  at  Queen's  Hall,  and  sat 
in  the  gallery,  in  seats  which  Heath  habitually  frequented 
when  the  music  given  was  orchestral,  when  he  wished  to  see  as 
little  as  possible  and  to  hear  perfectly.  He  enjoyed  hearing 
a  fine  orchestra  without  watching  the  conductor,  whose  neces- 
sary gestures,  sometimes  not  free  from  an  element  of  the  gro- 
tesque, hindered  the  sweet  toil  of  his  imagination,  held  him 
back  from  worlds  he  desired  to  enter. 

Between  the  two  parts  of  the  not  long  concert  there  was  a 
pause.  During  it  Mrs.  Mansfield  and  Claude  left  their  seats 
and  strolled  about  in  the  corridor,  talking.  They  were  both 
of  them  heated  by  music  and  ready  for  mental  intimacy.  But 
they  did  not  discuss  the  works  they  had  just  heard.  Com- 
binations of  melody  and  harmony  turned  them  toward  life  and 
humanity.  The  voices  of  the  great  orchestral  family  called 
them  toward  the  dim  avenues  where  in  the  shadows  destiny 
wanders.  Some  music  enlarges  the  borders,  sets  us  free  in 
regions  whose  confines  we  cannot  perceive.  They  spoke  of 
aims,  of  ideals,  of  goals  which  are  very  far  off. 

"Fine  music  gives  me  the  conception  of  great  distances," 
Mrs.  Mansfield  said  presently.  "It  makes  me  feel  that  the 
soul  is  born  for  travel." 

Heath  stood  still. 

"The  winding  white  road  over  the  hills  that  loses  itself  in 
the  vagueness  which,  in  a  picture,  only  some  shade  of  blue  can 
suggest.  The  road!  The  road!" 

He  stood  leaning  against  the  wall.     As  she  stood  by  him 


100        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

Mrs.  Mansfield  felt  strangely,  almost  cruelly,  young.  It  was 
as  if  student  days  had  come  for  them  both.  She  could  hardly 
believe  that  her  hair  was  snow-white,  and  that  Charmian  had 
been  going  to  parties  for  nearly  four  years. 

"The  worst  of  it  is,"  Claude  continued,  "that  it  is  so  hard 
sometimes  not  to  wander  from  it." 

"  It  seems  to  me  you  never  wander." 

"Because  I  know  that,  if  I  did,  I  should  probably  never 
come  back  to  the  road.  What  you  perhaps  consider  my 
strength  takes  its  rise,  I  believe,  in  my  knowledge  of  my 
weakness.  Things  that  are  right  for  others  aren't  right  for 
me." 

No  one  was  near  them.  The  music  seemed  to  have  abol- 
ished for  the  moment  the  difference  in  age  between  them. 
Claude  spoke  to  her  as  he  had  seldom  spoken  to  her  before, 
with  an  almost  complete  unreserve  of  manner. 

"Do  you  know  why  some  men  enter  the  cloister?"  he 
continued.  "It's  because  they  feel  that  if  they  are  not  monks 
they  will  be  libertines.  Mullion  House  is  my  cloister.  I 
haven't  got  the  power  of  apportioning  my  life  with  sweet 
reason,  so  much  work,  so  much  play,  so  much  retirement,  so 
much  society,  so  much  restraint,  so  much  license.  I  could 
never  pursue  my  art  through  wildness,  as  so  many  men  have 
done,  women  too.  I  don't  believe  I  could  even  stick  to  it  in 
the  midst  of  the  ordinary  life  of  pleasures  and  distractions. 
It's  like  a  bone  that  I  have  to  seize  and  take  away  into  a  cave 
where  no  one  can  see  me  gnaw  it.  Isn't  that  a  beastly  simile?  " 

"Is  that  why  you  won't  go  to  Max  Elliot's,  that  you  re- 
fused Mrs.  Shiffney?  Do  you  think  that  the  sort  of  thing 
which  inspires  many  men — the  audience,  let  us  say,  watching 
the  combat — would  unnerve  you?" 

"  I  don't  say  that.  But  I  think  it  might  lead  me  into  wild 
extravagance,  or  into  complete  idleness.  And  I  think,  I 
know,  that  I  might  be  tempted  irresistibly  to  give  an  audience 
what  it  wanted.  There's  something  in  me  which  is  ready  to 
rush  out  to  satisfy  expectation.  I  hate  it,  but  it's  there." 

"And  yet  you're  so  uncompromising." 

"That's  my  armor.  I  daren't  wear  ordinary  clothes,  lest 
ryery  arrow  should  pierce  me, " 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        101 

A  bell  sounded.  They  returned  to  the  concert  room. 
When  the  second  part  was  over  Heath  looked  at  Mrs.  Mansfield 
and  said: 

"  Where  are  we  going?" 

They  were  in  the  midst  of  the  crowd  passing  out.  Women 
were  winding  soft  things  about  their  necks,  men  were  button- 
ing up  their  coats.  For  a  March  wind  was  about  in  the  great 
city.  She  returned  his  look  and  smiled. 

"Ah!  You  guessed!  It's  the  gallery,  I  suppose.  I'm  not 
accustomed  to  all  this  fun.  Isn't  it  amazing  what  a  groove 
one  lives  in?  Berkeley  Square  shadows  the  whole  of  my  life 
I  begin  to  believe." 

"Don't  say  the  motor  is  waiting!" 

"No,  it  isn't." 

"Shall  we  go  to  some  preposterous  place — to  the  Monico?" 

"  Where  you  like.     It's  just  tea  time,  or  coffee  time." 

They  walked  to  the  Monico  in  the  March  wind,  and  went  in 
with  a  group  of  Italians,  passing  the  woman  who  sells  foreign 
papers,  and  seeing  names  that  transported  them  to  Paris,  to 
Milan,  to  Rome,  to  Berlin.  A  vastness  of  marble  contained  a 
myriad  of  swarthy  strangers,  releasing  souls  astoundingly 
foreign  in  vivid  gesture  and  talk.  They  had  coffee  with  cream 
like  a  burgeoning  cloud  floating  airily  on  the  top. 

"The  only  word  to  describe  the  effect  of  all  this  upon  me 
is  spree,"  said  Mrs.  Mansfield.  "I  am  out  on  the  spree." 

"Capital!  And  if  I  stepped  right  in  to  your  sort  of  life," 
said  Heath,  "would  it  have  the  same  kind  of  effect  upon 
me?" 

"I  don't  think  it  could.  It's  too  conscious,  too  critical,  too 
fastidious.  There's  nothing  fastidious  in  a  spree.  I  like  the 
March  wind  outside,  too — the  thought  of  it." 

Suddenly  her  mind  went  to  Charmian  and  Algiers. 

"Charmian's  in  the  sun,"  she  said. 

Directly  she  said  this  Heath  looked  slightly  self-con- 
scious. 

"Have  you  heard  from  her?" 

"This  morning.  She  has  made  great  friends  with  Susan 
Fleet." 

"Yes?" 


102        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

"Oh,  a  woman  we  all  like,  who  often  helps  Adelaide  Shiffney 
with  things." 

"We  all  like,"  he  repeated. 

"A  cliche!  And  indeed  I  scarcely  know  Susan  Fleet. 
You  see  what  an  absurd  close  borough  I  live  in,  have  always 
lived  in.  And  I  never  thoroughly  realized  that  till  I  met 
you." 

"And  I  live  in  loneliness,  outside  of  it  all,  of  everything 
almost." 

Lightly  she  answered: 

"With  Mrs.  Shiffney  and  others  holding  open  the  door, 
holding  up  the  lamp,  and  imploring  you  to  come  in,  to  come 
right  in  as  they  say  on  the  other  side  of  the  Atlantic." 

"You  don't  do  that." 

"Do  you  wish  me  to?" 

"I  don't  know  what  I  wish.     But  I  am  dissatisfied." 

He  frowned,  moving  his  chair,  lit  a  cigarette,  pushed  away 
his  coffee  cup. 

"What  is  it  like  at  Algiers?" 

"Very  beautiful,  Charmian  says.  Adelaide  and  the  others 
have  gone  off  to  a  desert  place  called  Bou-Saada — " 

"Bou-Saada!"  he  said  slowly. 

"And  Charmian  and  Susan  Fleet  are  up  on  the  hill  at 
Mustapha  Superieur.  They've  left  the  yacht  for  a  few  days. 
They  are  visiting  Arab  villas  and  exploring  tropical  gardens." 

She  watched  him  and  sipped  her  coffee.  All  the  student 
feeling  had  gone  from  her.  And  now  she  was  deeply  aware  of 
the  difference  between  her  age  and  Heath's. 

"I  suppose  they  won't  be  back  for  a  good  while,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  I  expect  them  in  a  week  or  two." 

"So  soon?" 

"Adelaide  is  always  in  a  hurry,  and  this  was  only  to  be 
quite  a  short  trip." 

"Once  out  there  how  can  they  come  away  so  soon?  I 
should  want  to  stay  for  months.  If  I  once  began  really  to 
travel  there  would  never  be  an  end  to  it,  unless  I  were  not  my 
own  master." 

"It's  quite  extraordinary  how  you  master  yourself,"  Mrs. 
Mansfield  said.  "You  are  a  dragon  to  yourself,  and  what  a 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION         103 

fierce  unyielding  dragon!  It's  a  fine  thing  to  have  such  a 
strong  will. 

"Ah!    But  if  I  let  it  go!" 

"Do  you  think  you  ever  will?" 

"Yes,"  he  said  with  a  sort  of  deep  sadness.  "On  one 
side's  the  will.  But  on  the  other  side  there's  an  absurd  im- 
pulsiveness. But  don't  let's  talk  any  more  of  me.  Do  tell  me 
some  more  about  Algiers  and  your  daughter." 

When  Heath  left  her  that  day  Mrs.  Mansfield  said  to  herself, 
"If  Charmian  really  does  care  for  him  he  doesn't  know  it." 

What  were  Heath's  feelings  toward  Charmian  she  could 
not  divine.  She  was  unconscious  of  any  desire  to  baffle  her 
on  Heath's  part,  and  was  inclined  to  think  that  he  was  so 
wrapped  up  in  the  rather  solitary  life  he  had  planned  out  for 
himself,  and  in  his  art,  was  so  detached  from  the  normal  pre- 
occupations of  strong  and  healthy  young  men,  that  Charmian 
meant  very  little,  perhaps  nothing  at  all,  to  him.  She  had 
noted,  of  course,  the  slightly  self-conscious  look  which  had 
come  into  Heath's  face  when  she  had  mentioned  Charmian, 
but  she  explained  that  to  herself  easily  enough.  Her  mention 
of  Charmian  in  the  sun  had  recalled  to  him  the  persistence  of 
Mrs.  Shiffney,  which  he  knew  she  was  aware  of.  In  such 
matters  he  was  like  a  sensitive  boy.  He  had  the  peculiar 
delicacies  of  the  nervously  constituted  artist,  which  seem  very 
ridiculous  to  the  average  man,  but  not  to  the  discerning  woman. 
Mrs.  Mansfield  felt  almost  sure  that  his  self-consciousness 
arose  not  from  memories  of  Charmian,  but  of  Adelaide  Shiff- 
ney. And  she  supposed  that  he  was  probably  quite  indifferent 
to  Charmian.  It  was  better  so.  Although  she  believed  that 
it  was  wise  for  most  men  to  marry,  and  not  very  late  in  lif e,  she 
excepted  Heath  from  her  theory.  She  could  not  "see"  him 
married.  She  could  not  pick  out  any  girl  or  woman  whom  she 
knew,  and  say:  "That  would  be  the  wife  for  him."  Evidently 
he  was  one  of  the  exceptional  men  for  whom  the  normal  condi- 
tions are  not  intended.  She  thought  again  of  his  music,  and 
found  a  reason  there.  But  then  she  remembered  yellow-haired 
Fan.  He  was  at  home  with  a  child,  why  not  with  a  wife  and 
child  of  his  own?  She  put  aside  the  problem,  but  did  not 
resign  the  thought,  "In  any  case  Charmian  would  be  the 


104        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

wrong  woman  for  him  to  marry."  And  when  she  said  that  to 
herself  she  was  thinking  solely  of  the  welfare  of  Heath.  Be- 
cause he  was  a  man,  and  had  been  unreserved  with  her,  Mrs. 
Mansfield  instinctively  desired  to  "protect  his  life.  She  had 
the  feeling,  "I  understand  him  better  than  others."  In  a 
chivalrous  nature  understanding  breeds  a  strong  sense  of 
obligation.  Mrs.  Mansfield  felt  as  if  she  had  duties  toward 
Heath.  During  the  two  weeks  which  elapsed  before  Char- 
mian's  return  from  Algiers  she  thought  more  about  his  future 
than  about  her  child's.  But  she  was  a  very  feminine  woman 
and,  to  her,  a  man's  future  always  seemed  to  matter  more  than 
a  woman's. 

Heath,  too,  had  his  great  talent.  That  might  need  pro- 
tection in  the  future.  Mrs.  Mansfield  did  not  believe  in  an 
untroubled  lif e  for  such  a  man  as  Heath.  There  was  something 
disturbing  both  in  his  personality  and  in  his  music  which 
seemed  to  her  to  preclude  the  possibility  of  his  dwelling  always 
in  peace.  But  she  hoped  he  would  be  true  to  his  instinct,  to 
the  strange  instinct  which  kept  him  now  in  a  sort  of  cloistered 
seclusion.  She  knew  he  had  friends,  acquaintances,  made 
during  his  time  at  the  College  of  Music,  through  the  introduc- 
tions he  had  brought  to  London  from  Cornwall,  through 
family  connections.  Human  intercourse  must  be  part  of 
every  life.  But  she  was  glad,  very  glad,  that  neither  Mrs. 
Shiffney  nor  Max  Elliot  had  persuaded  him  into  the  world 
where  artists  are  handed  on  and  on  till  they  "know  every- 
body." His  words:  "Do  you  know  why  some  men  enter  the 
cloister?  It's  because  they  feel  that  if  they  are  not  monks 
they  will  be  libertines,"  remained  with  her.  Doubtless  Heath 
knew  himself.  She  thought  of  those  who  have  pursued  their 
art  through  wildness — Heath's  expression — with  an  inflexi- 
bility quite  marvellous,  an  order  in  the  midst  of  disorder, 
which  to  the  onlooker  seems  no  less  than  a  miracle.  But  they 
were  surely  Bohemians  born,  and  full  of  characteristics  that 
were  racial.  Such  characteristics  did  not  exist  in  Heath,  she 
thought.  She  pondered.  He  was  surely  not  a  Bohemian. 
And  yet  he  did  not  belong  to  the  other  race  so  noticeable  in 
England,  the  race  of  the  cultured  talented,  who  live  well- 
ordered  lives  in  the  calm  light  of  a  mild  and  unobjectionable 


publicity,  who  produce  in  the  midst  of  comfort,  giving  birth  to 
nothing  on  straw,  who  are  sane  even  to  the  extent  of  thinking 
very  much  as  the  man  in  Sloane  Street  thinks,  who  occasionally 
go  to  a  levee,  and  have  set  foot  on  summer  days  in  the  gardens 
of  Buckingham  Palace.  Heath,  perhaps,  could  not  be  dubbed 
with  a  name.  Was  he  a  Bohemian  who,  for  his  health's  sake, 
could  not  live  in  Bohemia?  She  remembered  the  crucifix 
standing  in  front  of  the  piano  where  he  passed  so  many  hours, 
the  strange  and  terrible  words  he  had  chosen  to  set  to  music, 
the  setting  he  had  given  them.  It  was  an  uncompromising 
nature,  an  uncompromising  talent.  And  yet — there  was  the 
other  side.  There  was  something  ready  to  rush  out  to  satisfy 
expectation. 

She  was  deeply  interested  in  Heath. 

About  ten  days  after  the  "spree"  at  the  Monico  she  received 
a  telegram  from  Marseilles — "Starting  to-night,  home  the  day 
after  to-morrow;  love. — CHARMIAN." 

Heath  dropped  in  that  day,  and  Mrs.  Mansfield  mentioned 
the  telegram. 

"  Charmian  will  be  back  on  Thursday.  I  told  you  Adelaide 
Shiffney  would  be  in  a  hurry." 

"Then  they  are  not  going  on  to  the  Greek  Isles,"  he  said. 

"Not  this  time." 

She  glanced  at  him  and  thought  he  was  looking  rather  sad. 

"Will  you  come  and  dine  on  Thursday  night  just  with  me 
and  Charmian?"  she  said.  "If  she  is  tired  with  the  journey 
from  Paris  you  may  be  alone  with  me.  If  not,  she  can  tell  us 
about  her  little  African  experiences." 

"Thank  you.    Yes,  I  should  like  to  come  very  much!" 

The  strangely  imaginative  expression,  which  made  his 
rather  plain  face  almost  beautiful,  shone  in  his  eyes  and  seemed 
to  shed  a  flicker  of  light  about  his  brow  and  lips,  as  he  added: 

"I  have  travelled  so  little  that  to  me  there  is  something 
almost  wonderful  in  the  arrival  of  someone  from  Africa.  Even 
the  name  comes  to  me  always  like  fire  and  black  mystery. 
Last  night,  just  before  I  went  to  bed,  I  was  reading  Chateau- 
briand, and  I  came  across  a  passage  that  kept  me  awake  for 
hours." 

"What  was  it?" 


106        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

She  leaned  a  little  forward,  ready  to  be  fascinated  as  evi- 
dently he  had  been. 

"He  is  writing  of  Napoleon,  and  says  of  him  something 
like  this." 

Heath  paused,  looked  down,  seemed  to  make  an  effort,  and 
continued,  with  his  eyes  turned  away  from  Mrs.  Mansfield: 

"  'His  enemies,  fascinated,  seek  him  and  do  not  see  him. 
He  hides  himself  in  his  glory,  as  the  lion  of  the  Sahara  hides 
himself  in  the  rays  of  the  sun  to  escape  from  the  searching 
eyes  of  the  dazzled  hunters.'  Isn't  that  simply  gorgeous?  It 
set  my  imagination  galloping.  '  As  the  lion  of  the  Sahara  hides 
himself  in  the  rays  of  the  sun' — by  Jove!"  He  got  up.  "I 
was  out  of  England  last  night.  And  to  think  that  Miss 
Charmian  is  actually  arriving  from  Africa!" 

When  he  was  gone  Mrs.  Mansfield  said  to  herself:  "He's  a 
child,  too!"  And  she  felt  restless  and  troubled.  Naivete 
leads  men  of  genius  into  such  unsuitable  regions  sometimes. 
It  was  rather  wonderful  that  he  could  feel  as  he  did  about 
Africa  and  refuse  to  go  to  Africa.  For  Adelaide  would  have 
taken  him  anywhere.  Would  Charmian  bring  back  with  her 
something  of  the  wonder  of  the  East  ?  Mrs.  Mansfield  felt  for  a 
moment  as  if  she  were  going  to  welcome  a  stranger  in  her  child. 
The  feeling  returned  to  her  on  the  Thursday  afternoon,  when 
she  was  waiting  for  Charmian's  arrival  in  her  writing-room. 

Charmian  was  due  at  Charing  Cross  at  three-twenty-five. 
She  ought  to  be  in  Berkeley  Square  about  four,  unless  the  train 
was  very  crowded,  and  there  was  a  long  delay  at  the  Customs. 
Four  o'clock  chimed  from  the  Dresden  china  clock  on  the 
mantelpiece,  and  she  had  not  arrived.  Mrs.  Mansfield  was 
conscious  of  a  restlessness  almost  amounting  to  nervousness. 
She  got  up  from  her  chair,  laid  down  the  book  she  had  been 
reading,  and  moved  slowly  about  the  room. 

How  would  Charmian  receive  the  news  that  Claude  Heath 
was  to  dine  with  them  that  night?  Would  she  be  too  tired 
by  the  journey  to  dine?  She  was  a  bad  sailor.  Perhaps  the 
sea  in  the  Channel  had  been  rough.  If  so,  she  would  arrive 
not  looking  her  best.  Mrs.  Mansfield  had  invited  Heath 
because  she  wished  to  be  sure  at  the  first  possible  moment 
whether  Charmian  was  in  love  with  him  or  not.  And  she  was 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        107 

positive  that  now,  consciously  alert  and  suspicious,  if  she  saw 
the  two  together  even  for  a  short  time  she  would  know. 

And  if  she  knew  that  it  was  so,  that  Charmian  had  set  her 
affections  on  Heath — what  then? 

She  resolved  not  to  look  beyond  the  day.  But  as  the 
moments  passed,  and  she  waited,  her  mind,  like  a  thing  beyond 
control,  began  to  occupy  itself  with  that  question.  The  dis- 
tant hoot  of  a  motor  startled  her.  Although  their  motor  had  a 
horn  exactly  the  same  as  a  thousand  others  she  knew  at  once 
that  Charmian  was  entering  the  Square.  Half  a  minute  later, 
standing  in  the  doorway  of  her  sitting-room,  she  heard  the  door 
bell  and  the  footsteps  of  Lassell,  the  butler.  Impulsively  she 
went  to  the  staircase. 

" Charmian!"  she  called.     " Charmian!" 

"My  only  mother!"  came  up  a  voice  from  below. 

She  saw  Charmian  pushing  up  her  veil  over  her  three- 
cornered  travelling-hat  with  a  bright  red  feather. 

"  Where  are  you?    Oh,  there!" 

She  came  up  the  stairs. 

"Such  a  crossing!  I'm  an  unlucky  girl!  Remedies  are 
no  use.  Dearest!" 

She  put  two  light  hands  on  her  mother's  shoulders  and 
kissed  her  twice  with  lips  which  were  rather  cold.  Her  face 
was  pale,  and  her  eyes  looked  unusually  haggard  and  restless. 
An  atmosphere  of  excitement  seemed  to  surround  her  like  an 
aura,  Mrs.  Mansfield  thought.  She  put  her  arm  through  her 
mother's. 

"Tea  with  you,  and  then  I  think  I  must  go  to  bed.  How 
nice  to  be  in  my  own  dear  bed  again!  I  thought  of  my  pillows 
on  board  with  a  yearning  that  came  from  the  soul,  I'm  sure. 
Of  course,  we  left  the  yacht  at  Marseilles.  The  yachting  there 
was  such  a  talk  about  resolved  itself  into  the  two  crossings.  I 
wasn't  sorry,  for  we  never  saw  a  calm  sea  except  from  the 
shore." 

"No?    What  a  shame!    Sit  here." 

Charmian  threw  herself  down  with  a  movement  that  was 
very  young  and  began  taking  off  her  long  gloves.  As  her  thin, 
pretty  hands  came  out  of  them,  Mrs.  Mansfield  bent  down  and 
kissed  her. 


108        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

"Dear  child!    How  nice  to  have  you  safe  home!" 

"Is  it?" 

"What  a  silly  question  to  ask  your  only  mother!" 

"This  chair  makes  me  feel  exactly  how  tired  I  am.  It 
tells  me." 

"Takeoff  your  hat." 

"Shall  I?"  She  put  up  her  hands,  but  she  left  the  hat 
where  it  was,  and  her  mother  did  not  ask  why. 

"Is  Adelaide  back?" 

"No,  I  left  her  glued  to  Paris.  I  crossed  with  Susan  Fleet. 
Oh!" 

She  rested  her  head  on  the  back  of  the  big  chair,  and  shut 
her  eyes. 

"Only  tea.     I  can't  eat!" 

"Here  it  is." 

"  I  feel  as  if  I'd  been  away  for  centuries,  as  if  London  must 
have  changed." 

"It  hasn't." 

"And  you?" 

"Oh,  of  course,  I've  shed  my  nature,  as  you  see!" 

"I  believe  you  think  I've  shed  mine." 

"Why?" 

"I  don't  know." 

Her  eyes  wandered  about  the  room. 

"Everything  just  the  same." 

"Then  Africa  really  has  made  a  great  difference?" 

The  alert  look  that  Mrs.  Mansfield  knew  so  well  came  into 
Charmian's  face  despite  her  fatigue. 

"Who  thought  it  would?" 

"Well,  you've  never  been  out  of  Europe  before." 

"You  did?" 

"Wouldn't  it  be  natural  if  I  had  fancied  it  might?" 

"  Perhaps.  But  it  was  only  the  very  edge  of  Africa.  I 
never  went  beyond  Mustapha  Superieur.  I  didn't  even  want 
to  go.  I  wonder  if  Susan  Fleet  did." 

"Do  you  think  so?" 

"I'm  afraid  I  didn't  think  very  much  about  it.  But  I 
begin  to  wonder  now.  I  think  she's  so  unselfish  that  perhaps 
she  makes  other  people  selfish." 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        109 

"You  made  great  friends,  didn't  you?" 

"Yes.  I  think  she's  rather  wonderful.  She's  very  unlike 
other  women.  She  seemed  actually  glad  to  give  me  the 
address  of  the  place  where  she  gets  her  coats  and  skirts.  If 
Theosophy  made  more  women  like  that  I  should  wish  it  to 
spread  like  cholera  in  the  alleys  of  Naples.  Madre,  don't 
mind  me!  I  was  really  ill  coming  across.  My  head  feels  all 
light  and  empty." 

She  put  up  her  hands  to  her  temples. 

"It's  as  if  everything  in  my  poor  little  brain-box  had  been 
shaken  about." 

"Poor  child!    And  I've  been  very  inconsiderate." 

' '  Inconsiderate  ?    How  ? ' ' 

"About  to-night." 

"You  haven't  accepted  a  party  for  me?" 

"It  isn't  so  bad  as  that.  But  I've  invited  someone  to 
dinner." 

"Mother!"  Charmian  looked  genuinely  surprised.  "Not 
Aunt  Kitty!" 

Aunt  Kitty  was  a  sister  of  Mrs.  Mansfield's  whom  Charmian 
disliked. 

"Oh,  no— Claude  Heath." 

After  a  slight  but  perceptible  pause,  Charmian  said: 

"Mr.  Heath.  Oh,  you  asked  him  for  to-night  before  you 
knew  I  should  be  here.  I  see." 

"No,  I  didn't.  I  thought  he  would  like  to  hear  about 
your  African  experiences.  I  asked  him  after  your  telegram 
came." 

Charmian  got  up  slowly,  and  stood  where  she  could  see 
herself  in  a  mirror  without  seeming  intent  on  looking  in  the 
glass.  Her  glance  to  it  was  very  swift  and  surreptitious,  and 
she  spoke,  to  cover  it  perhaps. 

"  I'm  afraid  I've  got  very  little  to  tell  about  Algiers  that 
could  interest  Mr.  Heath.  Would  you  mind  very  much  if  I 
gave  it  up  and  dined  in  bed?" 

"  Do  just  as  you  like.  It  was  stupid  of  me  to  ask  him.  I 
suppose  I  acted  on  impulse  without  thinking  first." 

"What  time  is  dinner?" 

"Eight  as  usual." 


110        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

"I'll  lie  down  and  rest  and  then  see  how  I  feel.  I'll  go 
now.  Nice  to  be  with  you  again,  dearest  Madre!" 

She  bent  down  and  kissed  her  mother's  cheek.  The  touch 
of  her  lips  just  then  was  not  quite  pleasant  to  Mrs.  Mansfield. 
When  she  was  in  her  bedroom  alone,  Charmian  took  off  her 
hat,  and,  without  touching  her  hair,  looked  long  and  earnestly 
into  the  glass  that  stood  on  her  dressing-table.  Then  she 
bent  down  and  put  her  face  close  to  the  glass. 

"I  look  dreadful!"  was  her  comment. 

Her  maid  knocked  at  the  door  and  was  sent  away.  Char- 
mian undressed  herself,  got  into  bed,  and  lay  very  still.  She 
felt  very  interesting,  and  as  if  she  were  going  to  be  involved 
in  interesting  and  strange  events,  as  if  destiny  were  at  work, 
and  were  selecting  instruments  to  help  on  the  coming  of  that 
which  had  to  be.  She  thought  of  her  mother  as  one  of  these 
instruments. 

It  was  strange  that  her  mother  should  have  been  moved 
to  ask  Claude  Heath,  the  man  she  meant  to  marry,  to  come 
to  the  house  alone  on  the  evening  of  her  return.  This  action 
was  not  a  very  natural  one  on  her  mother's  part.  It  had  always 
been  tacitly  understood  that  Heath  was  Mrs.  Mansfield's 
friend.  Yet  Mrs.  Mansfield  had  invited  him  for  her  daughter. 
Had  thought,  for  which  space  does  not  exist,  reached  across 
the  sea  from  child  to  mother  mysteriously,  saying  to  the 
mother,  "Do  this!" 

But  unless  the  glass  told  a  new  tale  at  seven  o'clock  Char- 
mian did  not  mean  to  go  down  to  dinner. 

She  closed  her  eyes  and  said  to  herself,  again  and  again, 
"Look  better!  Look  better!  Look  better!" 


CHAPTER  X 

WHEN  seven  o'clock  struck  she  got  out  of  bed,  and  again 
looked  in  the  glass.  She  felt  rested  in  body,  and  no 
longer  had  the  tangled  sensation  in  her  head.  B  ut  the 
face  which  confronted  her  reminded  her  disagreeably  of  Millie 
Deans,  the  American  singer.  It  had  what  Charmian  called  the 
"Pierrot  look,"  a  too  expressive  and  unnatural  whiteness 
which  surely  told  secrets.  It  seemed  to  her,  too,  a  hard  face, 
too  determined  in  expression,  repellent  almost.  And  surely 
nothing  is  likely  to  be  more  repellent  to  a  man  than  a  girl's 
face  that  is  hard. 

Since  her  conversation  with  Susan  Fleet  by  the  little  lake 
in  the  Algerian  garden,  Charmian  had  felt  that  destiny  had 
decreed  her  marriage  with  Claude  Heath.  So  she  put  the 
matter  to  herself.  Really  that  conversation  had  caused  her 
secretly  to  decide  that  she  would  marry  Claude  Heath. 

"It  may  be  so,"  Susan  Fleet  had  said.  "Perhaps  part 
of  your  destiny  is  to  learn  through  that  man,  and  to  teach 
him." 

The  words  had  gone  to  join  the  curious  conviction  that  had 
come  to  Charmian  out  of  the  white  dust  floating  up  from  the 
road  that  runs  through  Mustapha,  out  of  the  lilies,  out  of  the 
wrinkled  trunk  of  the  great  palm  that  was  separated  by  the 
yellow-green  water  from  all  its  fellows,  "I  shall  be  here  again 
with  him." 

Surely  the  strong  assertion  of  the  will  is  the  first  step  that 
takes  a  human  being  out  of  the  crowd.  Charmian  had  suffered 
because  she  was  in  the  crowd,  undistinguished,  lost  like  a 
violet  in  a  prairie  abloom  with  thousands  of  violets.  Some- 
thing in  Algeria,  something  perhaps  in  Susan  Fleet,  had  put 
into  her  a  resolve,  unacknowledged  even  to  herself.  She  had 
returned  to  England,  meaning  to  marry  Claude  Heath,  mean- 
ing to  use  her  will  as  the  ardent  and  capable  servant  of  her 
heart. 

in 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

But  what  she  said  to  herself  was  this,  "I  believe  destiny 
means  to  bring  us  together."  She  wrapped  a  naked  little 
fact  up  in  a  soft  tissue  of  romance  and  wonder. 

But  the  face  in  the  glass  which  now  looked  at  her  was  too 
determined,  too  hard.  It  startled  her.  And  she  changed  the 
expression  on  it.  But  then  it  looked  insincere,  meretricious, 
affected,  and  always  haggard. 

For  a  minute  Charmian  hesitated,  almost  resolved  to  go 
back  to  bed.  But,  oh,  the  dulness  of  the  long  evening  shut  in 
there!  Three  hours  ago,  at  Charing  Cross  Station,  she  had 
looked  forward  to  it.  But  now! 

Only  once  in  her  life  had  Charmian  made  up  her  face.  She 
knew  many  girls  who  disfigured  their  youth  by  concealing  it 
with  artifice.  She  thought  them  rather  absurd  and  rather 
horrid.  Nevertheless  she  had  rouge  and  powder.  One  day 
she  had  bought  them,  shut  herself  in,  made  up  her  face,  and 
been  thoroughly  disgusted  with  the  effect.  Yes,  but  she  had 
done  it  in  a  hurry,  without  care.  She  had  known  she  was  not 
going  to  be  seen. 

Softly  she  pulled  out  a  drawer. 

At  half-past  seven  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door.  She 
opened  it  and  saw  her  maid. 

"If  you  please,  miss,  Mrs.  Mansfield  wishes  to  know  whether 
you  feel  rested  enough  to  dine  downstairs." 

"Yes,  I  do.  Just  tell  mother,  and  then  come  back,  please, 
Halton." 

When  Halton  came  Charmian  watched  her  almost  as  a  cat 
does  a  mouse,  and  presently  surprised  an  inquiring  look  that 
degenerated  into  a  look  of  suspicion. 

"What's  the  matter,  Halton?" 

"Nothing,  miss.     Which  dress  will  you  wear?" 

So  Halton  had  guessed,  or  had  suspected — there  was  not 
much  difference  between  the  two  mental  processes. 

"The  green  one  I  took  on  the  yacht." 

"Yes,  miss." 

"Or  the — wait  a  minute." 

"Yes,  miss?" 

"Yes — the  green  one." 

When  the  maid  had  taken  the  dress  out  Charmian  said: 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        113 

"Why  did  you  look  at  me  as  you  did  just  now,  Halton?  I 
wish  to  know." 

"I  don't  know,  miss." 

"Well,  I  have  put  something  on." 

"Yes,  miss." 

"I  looked  so  sea-sick — yellow.  No  one  wants  to  look 
yellow." 

"No,  I'm  sure,  miss." 

"But  I  don't  want — come  and  help  me,  Halton.  I  believe 
you  know  things  I  don't." 

Halton  had  been  with  the  lovely  Mrs.  Charlton  Hoey  before 
she  came  to  Charmian,  and  she  did  know  things  unknown 
to  her  young  mistress.  Trusted,  she  was  ready  to  reveal 
them,  and  Charmian  went  downstairs  at  three  minutes  past 
eight  more  ingenious  than  she  had  been  at  ten  minutes  before 
that  hour. 

Although  she  was  quite,  quite  certain  that  neither  her 
mother  nor  Claude  Heath  would  discover  what  had  been  done 
with  Halton's  assistance,  she  was  nevertheless  sufficiently  un- 
certain to  feel  a  tremor  as  she  put  her  hand  on  the  drawing-room 
door,  and  it  was  a  tremor  in  which  a  sense  of  shame  had  a  part. 

Claude  Heath  was  in  the  room  with  Mrs.  Mansfield.  As 
Charmian  looked  at  him  getting  quickly  up  from  the  sofa 
where  he  had  been  sitting  he  seemed  to  her  a  stranger.  Was 
this  really  the  man  who  had  made  her  suffer,  weep,  confide  in 
Susan  Fleet,  in  Algeria?  Had  pink  roses  and  dust,  far-off 
and  near  sounds,  movements  and  stillnesses,  and  that  strange 
little  island  spoken  to  her  of  him,  prophesied  to  her  about  him? 
She  had  a  sense  of  banality,  of  disillusion,  as  if  all  that  had  been 
in  her  own  brain  only,  almost  crazily  conceived  without  any 
action  of  events  to  prompt  it. 

But  when  she  met  his  eyes  the  disagreeable  sensation 
dropped  away.  For  his  eyes  searched  her  in  a  way  that  made 
her  feel  suddenly  important.  He  was  looking  for  Africa,  but 
she  did  not  know  it. 

Although  he  did  not  see  what  Charmian  had  done  to  her 
face,  he  noticed  change  in  her.  She  seemed  to  him  more 
of  a  personage  than  she  had  seemed  before  she  went  away. 
He  was  not  sure  that  he  liked  the  change.  But  it  made  an 


114        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

impression  upon  him.  And  what  he  considered  as  the  weak- 
ness within  him  felt  a  desire  to  please  and  conciliate  it. 

Mrs.  Mansfield  had  seen  at  a  glance  that  Charmian' had 
touched  up  her  face,  but  she  showed  nothing  of  what  she  felt, 
if  she  felt  anything,  about  this  new  departure.  And  when 
Heath  said  to  Charmian,  "How  well  you  are  looking!"  Mrs. 
Mansfield  added: 

"Your  rest  has  done  you  good." 

"Yes,  I  feel  rather  less  idiotic!"  said  Charmian;  "but  only 
rather.  You  mustn't  expect  me  to  be  quite  my  usual  brilliant 
self,  Mr.  Heath.  You  must  wait  a  day  or  two  for  that. 
What  have  you  been  doing  all  this  time?" 

It  seemed  to  Heath  that  there  was  a  hint  of  light  patronage 
in  her  tone  and  manner.  He  was  unpleasantly  conscious  of  the 
woman  of  the  world.  But  he  did  not  realize  how  much 
Charmian  had  to  conceal  at  this  moment. 

When  almost  immediately  they  went  in  to  dinner,  Mrs. 
Mansfield  deliberately  turned  the  conversation  to  Charmian's 
recent  journey.  This  was  to  be  Charmian's  dinner.  Char- 
mian was  the  interesting  person,  the  traveller  from  Algeria.  Had 
not  Claude  Heath  been  invited  to  hear  all  about  the  trip? 
Mrs.  Mansfield  remembered  the  imaginative  look  which  had 
transformed  his  face  just  before  he  had  quoted  Chateaubriand. 
And  she  remembered  something  else,  something  Charmian  had 
once  said  to  her:  "You  jump  into  minds  and  hearts  and 
poor  little  I  remain  outside,  squatting,  like  a  hungry  child!" 
She  had  a  sincere  horror  of  the  elderly  mother  who  clings  to 
that  power  which  should  rightly  be  in  the  hands  of  youth. 
And  to-night  something  in  her  heart  said:  "Give  place!  give 
place!"  The  fact  which  she  had  noticed  in  connection  with 
Charmian's  face  had  suddenly  made  something  within  her 
weep  over  the  child,  take  herself  to  task.  There  was  still 
much  impulse  in  Mrs.  Mansfield.  To-night  a  subtlety  in 
Charmian,  which  no  man  could  have  detected,  set  that  impulse 
in  a  generous  and  warm  blaze;  filled  her  with  a  wish  to  abdicate 
in  the  child's  favor,  to  make  her  the  center  of  the  evening's 
attention,  the  source  of  the  evening's  conversation;  to  show 
Heath  that  Charmian  could  be  as  interesting  as  herself  and 
more  attractive  than  she  was. 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        115 

The  difficulty  was  to  obtain  the  right  response  from  Char- 
mian.  She  had  learnt,  and  had  decided  upon  so  much  in 
Algiers  that  she  was  inclined  to  pretend  that  Algiers  was  very 
uninteresting.  She  did  not  fully  realize  that  Claude  Heath 
was  naive  as  well  as  clever,  was  very  boyish  as  well  as  very 
observant,  very  concentrated  and  very  determined.  And 
she  feared  to  play  the  schoolgirl  if  she  made  much  of  her 
experience.  Algiers  meant  so  much  to  her  just  then  that  she 
belittled  Algiers  in  self-defense. 

Heath  was  chilled  by  her  curt  remarks. 

"Of  course,  it's  dreadfully  French!"  she  said.  "I  sup- 
pose the  conquerors  wish  to  efface  all  the  traces  of  the  con- 
quered as  much  as  possible.  I  quite  understand  their  feelings. 
But  it's  not  very  encouraging  to  the  desirous  tourist." 

"Then  you  were  disappointed?"  said  Heath. 

"You  should  have  gone  to  Bou-Saada,"  said  Mrs.  Mans- 
field. "You  would  have  seen  the  real  thing  there.  Why 
didn't  you?" 

"Adelaide  Shiffney  started  in  such  a  hurry,  before  I  had 
had  time  to  see  anything,  or  recover  from  the  horrors  of  yacht- 
ing. You  know  how  she  rushes  on  as  if  driven  by  furies." 

There  was  a  small  silence.  Charmian  knew  now  that  she 
was  making  the  wrong  impression,  that  she  was  obstinately 
doing,  being,  all  that  was  unattractive  to  Heath.  But  she 
was  governed  by  the  demon  that  often  takes  possession  of 
girls  who  love  and  feel  themselves  unloved.  The  demon 
forced  her  to  show  a  moral  unattractiveness  that  did  not  really 
express  her  character.  And  realizing  that  she  must  be  seem- 
ing rather  horrid  in  condemning  her  hostess  and  representing 
the  trip  as  a  failure,  she  felt  defiant  and  almost  hard. 

"Did  you  envy  me?"  she  said  to  Heath,  almost  a  little 
aggressively. 

"Well,  I  thought  you  must  be  having  a  very  interesting 
time.  I  thought  a  first  visit  to  Africa  must  be  a  wonderful 
experience." 

"But, /then — why  refuse  to  come?" 

She  gazed  full  into  his  face,  and  made  her  long  eyes  look 
impertinent,  challenging.  Mrs.  Mansfield  felt  very  uncom- 
fortable. 


116        THE  WAY  OF  AJMBITION 

"I!"  said  Heath.  "Oh,  I  didn't  know  I  was  in  question! 
Surely  we  were  talking  about  the  impression  Algiers  made 
upon  you." 

"Well,  but  if  you  condemn  me  for  not  being  more  enthusi- 
astic, surely  it  is  natural  for  me  to  wonder  why  you  wouldn't 
for  anything  set  foot  in  the  African  Paradise." 

She  laughed.  Her  nerves  felt  on  edge  after  the  journey. 
And  something  in  the  mental  atmosphere  affected  her  un- 
favorably. 

"But,  Miss  Charmian,  I  don't  condemn  you.  It  would 
be  monstrous  to  condemn  anyone  for  not  being  able  to  feel 
in  a  certain  way.  I  hope  I  have  enough  brains  to  see  that." 

He  spoke  almost  hotly. 

"Your  mother  and  I  had  been  imagining  that  you  were 
having  a  wonderful  tune,"  he  added.  "Perhaps  it  was  stupid 
of  us." 

"No.    Algiers  is  wonderful." 

Heath  had  changed  her,  had  suddenly  enabled  her  to  be 
more  natural. 

"I  include  Mustapha,  of  course.  Some  of  the  gardens  are 
marvellous,  and  the  old  Arab  houses.  And  I  think  perhaps 
you  would  have  thought  them  more  marvellous  even  than  I 
did." 

"But,  why?" 

"Because  I  think  you  could  see  more  in  beautiful  things 
than  I  can,  although  I  love  them." 

Her  sudden  softness  was  touching.  Heath  had  never  been 
paid  a  compliment  that  had  pleased  him  so  much  as  hers.  He 
had  not  expected  it,  and  so  it  gained  in  value. 

"I  don't  know  that,"  he  said  hesitatingly. 

"Madretta,  don't  you  agree  with  me?" 

"No  doubt  you  two  would  appreciate  things  differently." 

"But  what  I  mean  is  that  Mr.  Heath  in  the  things  we  should 
both  appreciate  could  see  more  than  I." 

"Pierce  deeper  into  the  heart  of  the  charm?  Perhaps  he 
could.  Oh,  eat  a  little  of  this  chicken!" 

"No,  dearest  mother,  I  can't.  I'm  in  a  Nebuchadnezzar 
mood.  Spinach  for  me." 

She  took  some. 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        117 

"Everything  seems  a  little  vague  and  Channelly  to-night, 
even  spinach." 

She  looked  up  at  Heath,  and  now  he  saw  a  sort  of  evasive 
charm  in  her  eyes. 

"  You  must  forgive  me  if  I'm  tiresome  to-night,  and  remember 
that  while  you  and  Madre  have  been  sitting  comfortably  in 
Mullion  House  and  Berkeley  Square,  I've  been  roaring  across 
France  and  rolling  on  the  sea.  I  hate  to  be  a  slave  to  my 
body.  Nothing  makes  one  feel  so  contemptible.  But  I 
haven't  attained  to  the  Susan  Fleet  stage  yet.  I'll  tell  you  all 
about  her  some  day,  Mr.  Heath,  but  not  now.  You  would  like 
her.  I  know  that.  But  perhaps  you'll  refuse  to  meet  her. 
Do  you  know  my  secret  name  for  you?  I  call  you — the  Great 
Refuser." 

Heath  flushed  and  glanced  at  Mrs.  Mansfield. 

"I  have  my  work,  you  see." 

"We  heard  such  strange  music  in  Algiers,"  she  answered. 
"I  suppose  it  was  ugly.  But  it  suggested  all  sorts  of  things 
to  me.  Adelaide  wished  Monsieur  Rades  was  with  us.  He's 
clever,  but  he  could  never  do  a  big  thing.  Could  he, 
mother?" 

"No,  but  he  does  little  things  beautifully." 

"What  it  must  be  to  be  able  to  do  a  big  thing!"  said  Char- 
mian.  "To  draw  in  color  and  light  and  perfume  and  sound, 
and  to  know  you  will  be  able  to  weave  them  together,  and 
transform  them,  and  give  them  out  again  with  you  in  them, 
making  them  more  strange,  more  wonderful.  We  saw  an 
island,  Susan  Fleet  and  I,  that — well,  if  I  had  had  genius  I 
could  have  done  something  exquisite  the  day  I  saw  it.  It 
seemed  to  say  to  me:  'Tell  them!  Tell  them!  Make  them 
feel  me!  Make  them  know  me!  All  those  who  are  far  away, 
who  will  never  see  me,  but  who  would  love  me  as  you  do,  if 
they  knew  me.'  And — it  was  very  absurd,  I  know! — but  I 
felt  as  if  it  were  disappointed  with  me  because  I  had  no  power 
to  obey  it.  Madre,  don't  you  think  that  must  be  the  greatest 
joy  and  privilege  of  genius,  that  capacity  for  getting  into  close 
relations  with  strange  and  beautiful  things?  I  couldn't  obey 
the  little  island,  and  I  felt  almost  as  if  I  had  done  it  a 
wrong." 


118        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

"Where  was  it?     In  the  sea?" 

"No— oh,  no!  But  I  can't  tell  you!  It  has  to  be 
seen — ' 

Suddenly  there  came  upon  her  again,  almost  like  a  cloud 
enveloping  her,  the  strong  impression  that  destiny  would 
lead  her  some  day  to  that  Garden  of  the  Island  with  Heath. 
She  did  not  look  at  him.  She  feared  if  she  did  he  would 
know  what  was  in  her  mind  and  heart.  Making  an  effort, 
she  recovered  her  self-command,  and  said: 

"I  expect  you  think  I'm  a  rather  silly  and  rhapsodizing 
girl,  Mr.  Heath.  Do  you  mind  if  I  tell  you  what  /  think?" 

"No,  tell  me  please!"  he  said  quickly. 

"Well,  I  think  that,  if  you've  got  a  great  talent,  perhaps 
genius,  you  ought  to  give  it  food.  And  I  think  you  don't 
want  to  give  it  food." 

"Swinburne's  food  was  Putney!"  said  Mrs.  Mansfield, 
"and  I  could  mention  many  great  men  who  scarcely  moved 
from  their  o\vn  firesides  and  yet  whose  imagination  was  nearly 
always  in  a  blaze." 

Heath  joined  in  eagerly,  and  the  discussion  lasted  till  the 
end  of  dinner.  Never  before  had  Charmian  felt  herself  to  be 
on  equal  terms  with  her  mother  and  Heath.  She  was  secretly 
excited  and  she  was  able  to  give  herself  to  her  excitement.  It 
helped  her,  pushed  on  her  intelligence.  She  saw  that  Heath 
found  her  more  interesting  than  usual.  She  began  to  realize 
that  her  journey  had  made  her  interesting  to  him.  He  had 
refused  to  go,  and  now  was  envying  her  because  she  had  not 
refused.  Her  depreciation  of  Algiers  had  been  a  mistake. 
She  corrected  it  now.  And  she  saw  that  she  had  a  certain 
influence  upon  Heath.  She  attributed  it  to  her  secret  assertion 
of  her  will.  She  was  not  going  to  sit  down  any  longer  and  be 
nobody,  a  pretty  graceful  girl  who  didn't  matter.  Will  is 
everthing  in  the  world.  Now  she  loved  she  had  a  fierce 
reason  for  using  her  will.  Even  her  mother,  who  knew  her 
in  every  mood,  was  surprised  by  Charmian  that  evening. 

Heath  stayed  till  rather  late.  When  he  got  up  to  go  away, 
Charmian  said: 

"Don't  you  wish  you  had  come  on  the  yacht?  Don't  you 
wish  you  had  seen  the  island?" 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        119 

He  hesitated,  looking  down  on  her  and  Mrs.  Mansfield,  and 
holding  his  hands  behind  him.  After  a  strangely  long  pause 
he  answered: 

"I  don't  want  to  wish  that,  I  don't  mean  to  wish  it." 

"Do  you  really  think  we  can  control  our  desires?"  she 
asked,  and  now  she  spoke  very  gravely,  almost  earnestly. 

"I  suppose  so.     Why  not?" 

"Oh!"  she  said  petulantly.  "You  remind  me  of  Oliver 
Cromwell — somebody  of  that  kind — you  ought  to  have  lived 
in  Puritan  days.  It's  England — England — England  in  you 
shrivelling  you  up.  I'm  sure  in  all  Algiers  there  isn't  one 
person  (not  English)  who  thinks  as  you  do.  But  if  you  were 
to  travel,  if  you  were  to  give  yourself  a  chance,  how  different 
you'd  be!" 

"Charmian,  you  impertinent  child!"  said  Mrs.  Mansfield, 
smiling,  but  in  a  voice  that  was  rather  sad. 

"It's  the  Channel!  It's  the  Channel!  I'm  not  myself 
to-night!" 

Heath  laughed  and  said  something  light  and  gay.  But  as 
he  went  out  of  the  room  his  face  looked  troubled. 

As  soon  as  he  had  gone,  Charmian  got  up  and  turned  to  her 
mother. 

"Are  you  very  angry  with  me,  Madre?" 

"No.  There  always  was  a  touch  of  the  minx  in  you,  and  I 
suppose  it  is  ineradicable.  What  have  you  been  doing  to  your 
face?" 

Charmian  flushed.  The  blood  even  went  up  to  her  fore- 
head, and  for  once  she  looked  confused,  almost  ashamed. 

"My  face?    You — you  have  noticed  something?" 

"Of  course,  directly  you  came  down.  Has  Adelaide  taught 
you  that?" 

"No!    Are  you  angry,  mother?" 

"No.  But  I  like  young  things  to  look  really  young  as 
long  as  they  can.  And  to  me  the  first  touch  of  make-up 
suggests  the  useless  struggle  against  old  age.  Now  I'm  not 
very  old  yet,  not  fifty.  But  I've  let  my  hair  become  white." 

"And  how  it  suits  you,  my  beautiful  mother!" 

"That's  my  little  compensation.  A  few  visits  to  Bond 
Street  might  make  me  look  ten  years  younger  than  I  do,  but 


120        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

if  I  paid  them,  do  you  know  I  think  I  should  lose  one  or  two 
friendships  I  value  very  much." 

Mrs.  Mansfield  paused. 

"Lose — friendships?"  Charmian  almost  faltered. 

"Yes.  Some  of  the  best  men  value  sincerity  of  appear- 
ance in  a  woman  more  than  perhaps  you  would  believe  to  be 
possible." 

"In  friendship!"  Charmian  almost  whispered. 

Again  there  was  a  pause.  Mrs.  Mansfield  knew  very  well 
that  a  sentence  from  her  at  this  moment  would  provoke  in 
Charmian  an  outburst  of  sincerity.  But  she  hesitated  to 
speak  that  sentence.  For  a  voice  within  her  whispered, 
"Am  I  on  Charmian's  side?" 

After  a  moment  she  got  up. 

"Bedtime,"  she  said. 

"Yes,  yes." 

Charmian  kissed  her  mother  lightly  first  on  one  eyelid  then 
on  the  other. 

"Dearest,  it  is  good  to  be  back  with  you." 

"But  you  loved  Algiers,  I  think." 

"Did  I?     I  suppose  I  did." 

"I  must  get  a  book,"  said  Mrs.  Mansfield,  going  toward 
a  bookcase. 

When  she  turned  round  with  a  volume  of  Browning  in  her 
hand  Charmian  had  vanished. 

Mrs.  Mansfield  did  not  regret  the  silence  that  had  saved  her 
from  Charmian's  sincerity.  In  reply  to  it  what  could  she 
have  said  to  help  her  child  toward  happiness? 

For  did  not  the  fact  that  Charmian  had  made  up  her  face 
because  she  loved  Claude  Heath  show  a  gulf  between  her  and 
him  that  could  surely  never  be  bridged? 


CHAPTER  XI 

HEATH  was  troubled  and  was  angry  with  himself  for  being 
troubled.  Looking  back  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  had 
taken  a  false  step  when  he  consented  to  that  dinner  with 
Max  Elliot.  Surely  since  that  evening  he  had  never  been 
wholly  at  peace.  And  yet  on  that  evening  he  had  entered  into 
his  great  friendship  with  Mrs.  Mansfield.  He  could  not  wish 
that  annulled.  It  added  value  to  his  life.  But  Mrs.  Shiffney 
and  Charmian  in  combination  had  come  into  his  life  with  her. 
And  they  began  to  vex  his  spirit.  He  felt  as  if  they  repre- 
sented a  great  body  of  opinion  which  was  set  against  a  deep 
conviction  of  his  own.  Their  motto  was,  "The  world  for  the 
artist."  And  what  was  his,  or  what  had  been  his  until  now? 
"His  world  within  the  artist."  He  had  fed  upon  himself, 
striving  rather  to  avoid  than  to  seek  outside  influences.  After 
Charmian's  return  from  Africa  a  persistent  doubt  assailed  him. 
His  strong  instinct  might  be  a  blind  guide.  The  opinion  of  the 
world,  represented  by  the  shrewd  married  woman  and  the 
intelligent  girl,  might  have  reason  on  its  side. 

Certainly  Charmian's  resolute  assertion  of  herself  on  the 
evening  of  her  return  had  been  surprisingly  effective.  In  an 
hour  she  had  made  an  impression  upon  Heath  such  as  she  had 
failed  to  make  in  many  weeks  of  their  previous  acquaint- 
anceship. Her  attack  had  gone  home.  "  If  you  were  to  give 
yourself  a  chance  how  different  you'd  be!"  And  then  her 
outburst  about  the  island!  There  had  been  truth  in  it. 
Color  and  light  and  perfume  and  sound  are  material  given 
out  to  the  artist.  He  takes  them,  uses  them,  combines  them, 
makes  them  his.  He  helps  them!  Ah!  That  was  the  word! 
He,  as  it  were,  gives  them  wings  so  that  they  may  fly  into  the 
secret  places,  into  the  very  hearts  of  men. 

Heath  looked  round  upon  his  hermitage,  the  little  house 
near  St.  Petersburg  Place,  and  he  was  companioned  by  fears. 
His  energies  weakened.  The  lack  of  self-confidence,  which 

121 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

often  affected  him  when  he  was  divorced  from  his  work,  began 
to  distress  him  when  he  was  working.  He  disliked  what  he 
was  doing.  Music,  always  the  most  evasive  of  the  arts, 
became  like  a  mist  in  his  sight.  There  were  moments  when  he 
hated  being  a  composer,  when  he  longed  to  be  a  poet,  a  painter, 
a  sculptor.  Then  he  would  surely  at  least  know  whether  what 
he  was  doing  was  good  or  bad.  Now,  though  he  was  inclined 
to  condemn,  he  did  not  feel  certain  even  of  ineptitude. 

Mrs.  Searle  noted  the  change  in  her  master,  and  admin- 
istered her  favorite  medicine,  Fan,  with  increasing  frequency. 
As  the  neurasthenic  believes  in  strange  drugs,  expensive  cures, 
impressive  doctors,  she  believed  in  the  healing  powers  of  the 
exceedingly  young.  Nor  was  Fan  doubtful  of  her  own  magical 
properties.  She  supposed  that  her  intense  interest  in  herself 
and  the  affairs  of  her  life  was  fully  shared  by  Heath.  Her  con- 
fidences to  him  in  respect  of  Masterman  and  other  important 
matters  were  unbridled.  She  seldom  strove  to  charm  by 
listening,  and  never  by  talking  to  Heath  about  himself.  Her 
method  of  using  herself  as  a  draught  of  healing  was  to  draw 
him  into  the  current  of  her  remarkable  life,  to  set  him  floating 
on  the  tides  of  her  fate. 

Heath  had  a  habit  of  composing  after  tea,  from  five  or  five- 
thirty  onward.  And  Fan  frequently  appeared  at  the  studio 
door  about  half-past  four,  turned  slightly  sideways  with  an 
expectant  glance  into  the  large  room  with  the  book-lined 
walls,  the  dim  paintings,  and  the  orange-colored  curtains. 
A  faint  air  of  innocent  coquetry  hung  about  her.  After  a 
pause  and  a  smile  from  Heath,  she  would  move  forward  with 
hasty  confidence,  sometimes  reaching  the  hearthrug  with  a 
run.  She  was  made  welcome,  petted,  apparently  attended 
to  with  a  whole  mind.  But  while  she  delivered  her  soul  of  its 
burden,  at  great  length  and  with  many  indrawn  breaths  and 
gusts  of  feeling,  Heath  was  often  saying  to  himself,  "Am  I 
provincial?" 

The  word  rankled  now  that  Charmian  had  spoken  out  with 
such  almost  impertinent  abruptness.  Had  he  then  lost  faith 
in  Mrs.  Mansfield?  She  had  never  said  that  she  wished  him 
different  from  what  he  was.  And  indirectly  she  had  praised 
his  music.  He  knew  it  had  made  a  powerful  impression  upon 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        123 

her.  Nevertheless,  he  could  not  forget  Channian's  words. 
Nor  could  he  help  linking  her  with  Mrs.  Shiffney  in  his  mind. 

Fan  pulled  at  his  sleeve,  raising  her  voice.  He  was  re- 
minded of  a  little  dog  clawing  to  attract  attention. 

"Yes,  Fan  tail!  I  mean  no,  of  course  not!  If  Masterman 
refuses  to  take  a  bath,  of  course  you  are  obliged  to  punish  him. 
Yes,  yes,  I  know.  Wear  something?  What?  What's  that? 
Like  you?  But  he's  a  man.  Very  well,  we'll  get  him  a  pair  of 
trousers.  No,  I  won't  forget.  Yes,  like  mine,  long  ones  like 
mine.  It'll  be  all  right.  Take  care  with  that  cup.  I  think 
mother  must  be  wanting  you.  Press  the  bell  hard.  Well, 
use  your  thumb  then.  That's  it — harder.  There,  you  see, 
mother  does  want  you.  Harriet  says  so." 

Harriet,  discreet  almost  to  dumbness  though  she  was,  was 
capable  of  receiving  a  hint  conveyed  by  her  master's  expres- 
sive eyebrows.  And  Fan  passed  on,  leaving  Heath  alone  with 
his  piano.  He  played  what  he  had  played  to  Mrs.  Mansfield  to 
reassure  himself.  But  he  was  not  wholly  reassured.  And  he 
knew  that  desire  for  a  big  verdict  which  often  tortures  the  un- 
known creator.  This  was  a  new  and,  he  thought,  ugly  phase 
in  his  life.  Was  he  going  to  be  like  the  others?  Was  he  going 
to  crave  for  notoriety?  Why  had  the  words  of  a  mere  girl, 
of  no  unusual  cleverness  or  perception,  had  such  an  effect  upon 
him?  How  thin  she  had  looked  that  day  when  she  emerged 
from  her  furs.  That  was  before  she  started  for  Africa.  The 
journey  had  surely  made  a  great  difference  in  her.  She  had 
come  back  more  of  a  personage,  more  resolute.  He  felt  the 
will  in  her  as  he  had  not  felt  it  before.  Till  she  came  back  he 
had  only  felt  the  strong  soul  in  her  mother.  That  was  like  an 
unwavering  flame.  How  Mrs.  Mansfield's  husband  must 
have  loved  her. 

And  Heath's  hands  slipped  from  the  piano,  and  he  dreamed 
over  women. 

He  was  conscious  of  solitude. 

Susan  Fleet  was  now  in  town.  After  the  trip  to  Algiers 
she  had  been  to  Folkestone  to  visit  her  mother  and  dear  old 
Mrs.  Simpkins.  She  had  also  combined  business  with  pleasure 
and  been  fitted  for  a  new  coat  and  skirt.  A  long  telegram 
from  Adelaide  Shiffney  called  her  back  to  London  to  under- 


124        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

take  secretarial  and  other  duties.  As  the  season  approached 
Mrs.  Shiffney's  life  became  increasingly  agitated.  Miss  Fleet 
was  an  excellent  hand  at  subduing,  or,  if  that  were  impossible, 
at  getting  neatness  into  agitation.  She  knew  well  how  to 
help  fashionable  women  to  be  absurd  with  method.  She  made 
their  silliness  almost  business-like,  and  assisted  them  to  arrange 
their  various  fads  in  apple-pie  order.  Amid  their  often 
hysterical  lives  she  moved  with  a  coolness  that  was  refreshing 
even  to  them.  She  never  criticized  their  actions  except 
sometimes  by  tacitly  declining  to  join  in  them.  And  they 
seldom  really  wanted  her  to  do  that.  Her  value  to  them  would 
have  been  diminished,  if  not  destroyed,  had  she  been  quite  as 
they  were. 

For  the  moment  she  was  in  Grosvenor  Square. 

Charmian  envied  Adelaide  Shiffney.  But  she  was  resolved 
to  see  more  of  Miss  Fleet  at  whatever  cost.  Recently  she  had 
been  conscious  of  a  tiny  something,  not  much  more  than  a 
thread,  dividing  her  from  her  mother.  Since  her  mother  knew 
that  she  had  made  up  her  face  on  Claude  Heath's  account,  she 
had  often  felt  self-conscious  at  home.  Knowing  that,  her 
mother,  of  course,  knew  more.  If  Charmian  had  told  the 
truth  she  would  not  have  minded  the  fact  that  it  was  known. 
But  she  did  mind  very  much  its  being  known  when  she  had  not 
told  it.  Sometimes  she  said  to  herself  that  she  was  being 
absurd,  that  Mrs.  Mansfield  knew,  even  suspected,  nothing. 
But  unfortunately  she  -was  a  woman  and,  therefore,  obliged  to 
be  horribly  intelligent  in  certain  directions.  Her  painted 
cheeks  and  delicately-darkened  eyelashes  had  spoken  what  her 
lips  had  never  said.  It  was  vain  to  pretend  the  contrary. 
And  she  sedulously  pretended  it. 

Her  sense  of  separation  from  her  mother  made  Charmian 
the  more  desirous  of  further  intercourse  with  Susan  Fleet. 
She  felt  as  if  only  Miss  Fleet  could  help  her,  though  how  she 
did  not  know.  After  repeated  attempts  on  her  part  a  meeting 
was  at  last  arranged,  and  one  afternoon  the  Theosophist  made 
her  appearance  in  Berkeley  Square  and  was  shown  upstairs 
to  Charmian's  little  sitting-room. 

Charmian  was  playing  a  Polonaise  of  Chopin's  on  a  cottage 
piano.  She  played  fairly  well,  but  not  remarkably.  She  had 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        125 

been  trained  by  a  competent  master  and  had  a  good  deal 
of  execution.  But  her  playing  lacked  that  grip  and  definite 
intention  which  are  the  blood  and  bone  of  a  performance. 
Several  people  thought  nevertheless  that  it  was  full  of  charm. 

"Oh,  Susan!" — she  stopped  abruptly  on  a  diminished 
seventh.  "Come  and  sit  here!  May  I?" 

She  kissed  the  serene  face,  clasping  the  white-gloved  hands 
with  both  of  hers. 

"Another  from  Folkestone?" 

"Yes." 

"What  a  fit!  I  simply  must  go  there.  D'you  like  my 
little  room?" 

Susan  looked  quietly  round,  examining  the  sage-green  walls, 
the  water-colors,  the  books  in  Florentine  bindings,  the  chairs 
and  sofas  covered  with  chintz,  which  showed  a  bold  design  of  pur- 
ple grapes  with  green  leaves,  the  cream-colored  rough  curtains, 
and  Charmian's  dachshund,  Caroline,  who  lay  awake  before 
the  small  fire  which  burned  in  a  grate  lined  with  Morris  tiles. 

"Yes,  I  like  it  very  much.  It  looks  like  your  home  and 
as  if  you  were  fond  of  it." 

"I  am,  so  far  as  one  can  be  fond  of  a  room." 

She  paused,  hesitating,  thinking  of  the  little  island  and 
her  sudden  outburst,  longing  to  return  at  once  to  the  subject 
which  secretly  obsessed  her,  yet  fearing  to  seem  childish,  too 
egoistic,  perhaps  naively  indiscreet.  Susan  looked  at  her  with 
a  friendly  gaze. 

"How  are  things  going  with  you?  Are  you  happier  than 
you  were  at  Mustapha?" 

"You  mean — about  that?" 

"I'm  afraid  you  have  been  worrying." 

"Do  I  look  uglier?"  cried  Charmian,  almost  with  sharpness. 

Susan  Fleet  could  not  help  smiling,  but  in  her  smile  there 
was  no  sarcasm,  only  a  gentle,  tolerant  humor. 

"I  hardly  know.  People  say  my  ideas  about  looks  are  all 
crazy.  I  can't  admire  many  so-called  beauties,  you  see. 
There's  more  expression  in  your  face,  I  think.  But  I  don't 
know  that  I  should  call  it  happy  expression." 

"I  wish  I  were  like  you.  I  wish  I  could  feel  indifferent  to 
happiness!" 


126        THE  WAY  O.F  AMBITION 

"I  don't  suppose  I  am  indifferent.  Only  I  don't  feel  that 
every  small  thing  of  to-day  has  power  over  me,  any  more  than 
I  feel  that  a  grain  of  dust  which  I  can  flick  from  my  dress 
makes  me  unclean.  It's  a  long  journey  we  are  making.  And 
I  always  think  it's  a  great  mistake  to  fuss  on  a  journey." 

"I  don't  know  anyone  who  can  give  me  what  you  do," 
said  Charmian. 

"It's  a  long  journey  up  the  Ray,"  said  Susan. 

"The  Ray?"  said  Charmian,  seized  with  a  sense  of  mystery. 

"The  bridge  that  leads  from  the  personal  which  perishes 
to  the  immortal  which  endures." 

"I  can't  help  loving  the  personal.  I'm  not  like  you. 
I  do  love  the  feeling  of  definite  personality,  separated  from 
everything,  mine,  me.  It's  no  use  pretending." 

"Pretence  is  always  disgusting." 

"Yes,  of  course.  But  still — never  mind,  I  was  only  going 
to  say  something  you  wouldn't  agree  with." 

Susan  did  not  ask  what  it  was,  but  quietly  turned  the  con- 
versation, and  soon  succeeded  in  ridding  Charmian  of  her  faint 
self-consciousness. 

"I  want  you  to  meet — him." 

At  last  Charmian  had  said  it,  with  a  slight  flush. 

"I  have  met  him,"  returned  Miss  Fleet,  in  her  powerful 
voice. 

"What!"  cried  Charmian,  on  an  almost  indignant  note. 

"I  met  him  last  night." 

"How  could  you?    Where?    He  never  goes  to  anything!" 

"I  went  with  Adelaide  to  the  Elgar  Concert  at  Queen's 
Hall.  He  was  there  with  a  musical  critic,  and  happened  to 
be  next  to  us." 

Charmian  looked  very  vexed  and  almost  injured. 

"Mrs.  Shiffney — and  you  talked  to  him?" 

"Oh,  yes.    Adelaide  introduced  us." 
,     There  was  a  silence.    Then  Charmian  said: 

"  I  don't  suppose  he  was  his  real  self — with  Adelaide  Shiffney. 
But  did  you  like  him?" 

"I  did.  I  thought  him  genuine.  And  one  sees  the  spirit 
clearly  in  his  face." 

"I'm  sure  he  liked  you." 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        127 

"I  really  don't  know." 

"I  do.  Did  he — did  you — either  of  you  say  anything 
about  me?" 

"  Certainly  we  did." 

"Did  he — did  he  seem — did  you  notice  whether  he  was 
at  all — ?  Caroline,  be  quiet!" 

The  dachshund,  who  had  shown  signs  of  an  intention  to 
finish  her  reverie  on  Charmian's  knees,  blinked,  looked  guilty, 
lay  down  again,  turned  over  on  her  left  side  with  her  back  to 
her  mistress,  and  heaved  a  sigh  that  nearly  degenerated  into  a 
whimper. 

"I  suppose  he  talked  most  of  the  time  with  Mrs.  Shiffney?" 

"Well,  we  had  quite  five  minutes  together.  I  spoke  about 
our  time  at  Mustapha." 

"Did  he  seem  interested?" 

"Very  much,  I  thought." 

"Very  much!  Oh,  Susan!  But  he  has  a  manner  of  seem- 
ing interested.  It  may  not  mean  anything.  But  still  I 
do  think  since  I  have  come  back  he  sees  that  I  am  not  quite  a 
nonentity.  He  has  been  here  several  times,  for  mother  of 
course.  Even  now  I  have  never  heard  his  music.  But  there 
is  a  difference.  I  believe  in  such  a  place  as  London  unless  one 
has  resolution  to  assert  oneself  people  think  one  is  a  sort  of 
shadow.  I  have  so  often  thought  of  what  you  said  about  my 
perhaps  having  to  learn  through  Claude  Heath  and  to  teach 
him,  too.  Sometimes  when  I  look  at  him  I  feel  it  must  be  so. 
But  what  have  I  to  teach?  D'you  know  since — since — well, 
it  makes  me  feel  humble  often.  And  yet  I  know  that  the 
greatest  man  needs  help.  Men  are  a  sort  of  children.  I've 
often  been  surprised  by  the  childishness  of  really  big  men. 
Please  tell  me  all  he  said  to  you." 

Very  calmly  Susan  told.  She  had  just  finished,  and  Char- 
mian  was  about  to  speak  again,  when  Mrs.  Mansfield  opened 
the  door.  Charmian  sprang  up  so  abruptly  that  Caroline  was 
startled  into  a  husky  bark. 

"Oh,  Madre!    Susan  Fleet  is  here!" 

Mrs.  Mansfield  knew  at  once  that  she  had  broken  in  upon  a 
confidential  interview,  not  by  Miss  Fleet's  demeanor,  but  by 
Charmian's.  But  she  did  not  show  her  knowledge.  She  sat 


128        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

down  and  joined  pleasantly  in  the  talk.  She  had  often  seen 
Miss  Fleet  in  London,  but  she  did  not  know  her  well.  At  once 
she  realized  that  Charmian  had  found  an  excellent  friend.  And 
she  was  not  jealous  because  of  the  confidence  given  but  not 
given  to  her.  Youth,  she  knew,  is  wilful  and  must  have  its 
way.  The  nearest,  for  some  inscrutable  reason,  are  generally 
told  the  least. 

When  Miss  Fleet  went  away,  Mrs.  Mansfield  said: 

"That  is  one  of  the  most  thoroughbred  human  beings  I 
have  ever  seen.  No  wonder  the  greatest  snobs  like  her. 
There  is  nothing  a  snob  hates  so  much  as  snobbery  in  another. 
Viva  to  your  new  friend,  Charmian!" 

She  wondered  a  little  whether  Miss  Fleet's  perception  of 
character  was  as  keen  as  her  breeding  was  definite,  when  she 
heard  that  Claude  Heath  had  met  her. 

Heath  told  Mrs.  Mansfield  this.  Miss  Fleet  had  made  a 
strong  impression  upon  him.  At  the  moment  when  he  had 
met  her  he  had  felt  specially  downcast.  The  musical  critic, 
with  whom  he  had  gone  to  the  concert,  had  been  a  fellow 
student  with  him  at  the  Royal  College.  Being  young  the 
critic  was  very  critical,  very  sure  of  himself,  very  decisive  in 
his  worship  of  the  new  idols  and  in  his  scathing  contempt  for 
the  old.  He  spoke  of  Mendelssohn  as  if  the  composer  of 
Elijah  had  earned  undying  shame,  of  Gounod  as  if  he  ought  to 
have  been  hanged  for  creating  his  Faust.  His  glorification 
of  certain  modern  impressionists  in  music  depressed  Heath, 
almost  as  much  as  his  abuse  of  the  dead  who  had  been  popular, 
and  who  were  still  appreciated  by  some  thousands,  perhaps 
millions,  of  nobodies.  He  made  Heath,  in  his  discontented 
condition,  feel  as  if  all  art  were  futile. 

"Why  give  up  everything,"  he  thought,  "merely  to  earn 
in  the  end  the  active  contempt  of  men  who  have  given  up 
nothing?  What  is  it  that  drives  me  on?  A  sort  of  madness, 
perhaps,  something  to  be  rooted  out." 

He  almost  shivered  as  the  conviction  came  to  him  that  he 
must  have  been  composing  for  posterity,  since  he  did  not  de- 
sire present  publicity.  No  doubt  he  had  tried  to  trick  him- 
self into  the  belief  that  he  had  toiled  for  himself  alone,  paid  the 
tribute  of  ardent  work  to  his  own  soul.  Now  he  asked  him- 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        129 

self,  with  bitter  scepticism:  "Does  any  man  really  ever  do 
that?"  And  his  world  seemed  to  fall  about  him  like  shadows 
dropping  down  into  a  void. 

Then  came  his  five  minutes  of  talk  with  Susan  Fleet. 

When  Heath  spoke  of  it  to  Mrs.  Mansfield  he  said: 

"I  was  a  cripple  when  we  began.  When  we  stopped  I  felt 
as  if  I  could  climb  to  a  peak.  And  she  said  nothing  memorable. 
But  I  had  been  in  her  atmosphere." 

"And  you  are  very  susceptible  to  atmosphere." 

"Too  susceptible.    That's  why  I  keep  so  much  to  myself." 

"I  know — the  cloister." 

She  looked  at  him  earnestly,  even  searchingly.  He  slightly 
reddened,  looked  down,  said  slowly: 

"It's  not  a  natural  life,  the  life  of  the  cloister." 

"  Perhaps  you  mean  to  come  out." 

"  I  don't  know  what  I  mean.     I  am  all  at  a  loose  end  lately." 

"Since  when?" 

Her  eyes  were  still  on  him. 

"I  hardly  know.  Perhaps  hearing  about  Africa,  of  that 
voyage  I  might  have  made,  unsettled  me.  I'm  a  weakling, 
I'm  afraid." 

"Very  strong  in  one  way." 

"Very  weak  in  another,  perhaps.  It  would  have  been 
better  to  go  and  have  done  with  it,  than  to  brood  over  not 
having  gone." 

"You  are  envying  Charmian?" 

"Some  days  I  envy  everyone  who  isn't  Claude  Heath," 
he  answered  evasively,  with  a  little  covering  laugh.  "Of 
one  thing  I  am  quite  sure,  that  I  wish  I  were  a  male  Miss  Fleet. 
She  knows  what  few  people  know." 

"What  is  that?" 

"  What  is  small  and  what  is  great." 

"And  you  found  that  out  in  five  minutes  at  a  concert?" 

"Elgar's  is  music  that  helps  the  perceptions." 

Mrs.  Mansfield's  perceptions  were  very  keen.  Yet  she  was 
puzzled  by  Heath.  She  realized  that  he  was  disturbed  and 
attributed  that  disturbance  to  Charmian.  Had  he  suspected, 
or  found  out,  that  Charmian  imagined  herself  to  be  in  love  with 
him?  He  came  as  usual  to  the  house.  His  friendship  with 

9 


130       THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

Mrs.  Mansfield  did  not  seem  to  her  to  have  changed.  But 
his  relation  to  Charmian  was  not  what  it  had  been.  Indeed, 
it  was  scarcely  possible  that  it  should  be  so.  For  Charmian 
had  continued  to  be  definite  ever  since  her  drastic  remarks  at 
dinner  on  the  evening  of  her  return.  She  bantered  Heath, 
laughed  at  him,  patronized  him  in  the  pretty  way  of  a  pretty 
London  girl  who  takes  the  world  for  her  own  with  the  hands  of 
youth.  When  she  found  him  with  her  mother  she  did  not 
glide  away,  or  remain  as  a  mere  listener  while  they  talked. 
She  stayed  to  hold  her  own,  sometimes  even — so  her  mother 
thought,  not  without  pathos — a  little  aggressively. 

Heath's  curious  and  deep  reserve,  which  underlay  his  ap- 
parent quick  and  sensitive  readiness  to  be  sympathetic  with 
those  about  him,  to  give  them  what  they  wanted  of  him,  was 
not  abated  by  Charmian's  banter,  her  delicate  impertinences, 
her  laughing  attacks.  Mrs.  Mansfield  noticed  that.  He 
turned  to  her  still  when  he  wished  to  speak  for  a  moment  out 
of  his  heart. 

But  he  was  becoming  much  more  at  home  in  Charmian's 
company.  She  stirred  him  at  moments  into  unexpected  bursts 
of  almost  boyish  gaiety.  She  knew  how  to  involve  him  in 
eager  arguments. 

One  day,  as  he  was  about  to  leave  the  house  in  Berkeley 
Square  he  said  to  Mrs.  Mansfield: 

"Miss  Charmian  ought  to  have  some  big  object  in  life  on 
which  she  could  concentrate.  She  has  powers,  you  know." 

When  he  was  gone  Mrs.  Mansfield  smiled  and  sighed. 

"And  when  will  he  find  out  that  he  is  Charmian's  big 
object  in  life?"  she  thought. 

She  knew  men  well.  Nevertheless,  their  stupidities  some- 
times surprised  her.  It  was  as  if  something  in  them  obstinately 
refused  to  see. 

"It's  their  blindness  that  spoils  us,"  she  said  to  herself. 
"If  they  could  see,  we  should  have  ten  commandments  to 
obey — perhaps  twenty." 


CHAPTER  XII 

TOWARD  the  end  of  the  London  season  the  management 
of  the  Covent  Garden  Opera  House  startled  its  subscribers 
by  announcing  for  production  a  new  opera,  composed  by 
a  Frenchmen  called  Jacques  Sennier,  whose  name  was  unknown 
to  most  people.  Mysteriously,  as  the  day  drew  near  for  the 
first  performance  of  this  work,  which  was  called  Le  Paradis 
Terrestre,  the  inner  circles  of  the  musical  world  were  infected 
with  an  unusual  excitement.  Whispers  went  round  that  the 
new  opera  was  quite  extraordinary,  epoch-making,  that  it  was 
causing  a  prodigious  impression  at  rehearsal,  that  it  was  abso- 
lutely original,  that  there  was  no  doubt  of  its  composer's  genius. 
Then  reports  as  to  the  composer's  personality  and  habits  began 
to  get  about.  Mrs.  Shiffney,  of  course,  knew  him.  But  she 
had  introduced  him  to  nobody.  He  was  her  personal  prey  at 
present.  She,  however,  allowed  it  to  be  known  that  he  was 
quite  charming,  but  the  strangest  creature  imaginable.  It 
seemed  that  he  had  absolutely  no  moral  sense,  did  not  know 
what  it  meant.  If  he  saw  an  insect  trodden  upon,  or  a  fly 
killed  on  a  window-pane,  he  could  not  work  for  days.  But 
when  his  first  wife — he  had  been  married  at  sixteen — shot 
herself  in  front  of  him,  on  account  of  his  persistent  cruelty  and 
infidelity,  he  showed  no  sign  of  distress,  had  the  body  carried 
out  of  his  studio,  and  went  on  composing.  Decidedly  an 
original!  Everybody  was  longing  to  know  him.  The  libraries 
and  the  box-office  of  the  Opera  House  were  bombarded  with 
demands  for  seats  for  the  first  performance,  at  which  the 
beautiful  Annie  Meredith,  singer,  actress,  dancer,  speculator, 
and  breeder  of  prize  bulldogs,  was  to  appear  in  the  heroine's 
part. 

Three  nights  before  the  premiere,  a  friend,  suddenly  plunged 
into  mourning  by  the  death  of  a  relation,  sent  Mrs.  Mansfield 
her  box.  Charmian  was  overjoyed.  Max  Elliot,  Lady 
Mildred  Burnington,  Margot  and  Kit  Drake,  Paul  Lane, 

131 


132       THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

all  her  acquaintances,  in  fact,  were  already  "raving"  about 
Jacques  Sennier,  without  knowing  him,  and  about  his  opera, 
without  having  heard  it.  Sensation,  success,  they  were  in  the 
air.  Not  to  go  to  this  premiere  .would  be  a  disaster.  Char- 
mian's  instinctive  love  of  being  "in"  everything  had  caused 
her  to  feel  acute  vexation  when  her  mother  had  told  her  that 
their  application  for  stalls  had  been  refused.  Now,  at  the  last 
moment,  they  had  one  of  the  best  boxes  in  the  house. 

"Whom  shall  we  take?"  said  Mrs.  Mansfield.  "There's 
room  for  four." 

"Why  not  invite  Mr.  Heath?"  said  Charmian,  with  a  rather 
elaborate  carelessness.  "As  he's  a  musician  it  might  inter- 
est him." 

"I  will  if  you  like.    But  he's  sure  to  refuse." 

Of  late  Heath  had  retired  into  his  shell.  Mrs.  Shiffney  had 
not  seen  him  for  months.  Max  Elliot  had  given  him  up  in 
despair.  Even  in  Berkeley  Square  he  was  but  seldom  visible. 
His  excuse  for  not  calling  was  that  he  knew  nobody  had  any 
time  to  spare  in  the  season. 

"Don't  write  to  him,  Madre,  or  he  will.  Get  him  to  come 
here  and  ask  him.  He  really  ought  to  follow  the  progress  of 
his  own  art,  silly  fellow.  I  have  no  patience  with  his  absurd 
fogey  dom." 

She  spoke  with  the  lightest  scorn,  but  in  her  long  eyes  there 
was  an  intentness  which  contradicted  her  manner. 

Heath  came  to  the  house,  was  invited  to  come  to  the  box, 
and  had  just  refused  when  Charmian  entered  the  room. 

"You're  afraid,  Mr.  Heath,"  she  said,  smiling  at  him. 

"Afraid!  What  of?"  he  asked  quickly,  and  a  little 
defiantly. 

"Afraid  of  hearing  what  the  foreign  composers  of  your 
own  age  are  doing,  of  comparing  their  talents  with  your  own. 
That's  so  English!  Never  mind  what  the  rest  of  the  world  is 
about!  We'll  go  on  in  our  own  way!  It  seems  so  valiant, 
doesn't  it?  And  really  it's  nothing  but  cowardice,  fear  of 
being  forced  to  see  that  others  are  advancing  while  we  are 
standing  still.  I'm  sick  of  English  stolidity  1" 

Heath's  eyes  shown  with  something  that  looked  like  anger. 

"I  really  don't  think  I'm  afraid!"  he  said  stiffly. 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        133 

Perhaps  to  prove  that  he  was  not,  he  rescinded  his  refusal 
and  came  to  the  premiere  with  the  Mansfields.  It  was  a 
triumph  for  Charmian,  but  she  did  not  show  that  she  knew  it. 

Heath  was  in  his  most  reserved  mood.  He  had  the  manner 
of  the  defiant  male  lured  from  behind  his  defenses  into  the 
open  against  his  will.  Some  intelligence  within  him  knew 
that  his  cold  stiffness  was  rather  ridiculous,  and  made  him  un- 
happy. Mrs.  Mansfield  was  really  sorry  for  him. 

Nothing  is  more  humorously  tragic  than  pleasure  in- 
dulged in  under  protest.  And  Heath's  protest  was  painfully 
apparent. 

Charmian,  who  was  looking  her  best,  her  most  self-possessed, 
a  radiant  minx,  with  fleeting  hints  of  depths  and  softnesses, 
half  veiled  by  the  firm  habit  of  the  world,  seemed  to  tower 
morally  above  the  composer.  He  marvelled  afresh  at  the 
triumphant  composure  of  modern  girlhood.  Sitting  between 
the  two  women  in  the  box — no  one  else  had  been  asked  to 
join  them — he  looked  out,  almost  shyly,  at  the  crowded  and 
brilliant  house.  Mrs.  Shiffney,  large,  powerful  and  glittering 
with  jewels,  came  into  a  box  immediately  opposite  to  theirs, 
accompanied  by  Ferdinand  Rades,  Paul  Lane,  and  a  very 
smart,  very  French,  and  very  ugly  woman,  who  was  covered 
thickly  with  white  paint,  and  who  looked  like  all  the  feminine 
intelligence  of  Paris  beneath  her  perfectly-dressed  red  hair. 
In  the  box  next  the  stage  on  the  same  side  were  the  Max  Elliots 
with  Sir  Hilary  Burnington  and  Lady  Mildred. 

Charmian  looked  eagerly  about  the  house,  putting  up  her 
opera-glasses,  finding  everywhere  friends  and  acquaintances. 
She  frankly  loved  the  world  with  the  energy  of  her  youth. 

At  this  moment  the  sight  of  the  huge  and  crowded  theater, 
full  of  watchful  eyes  and  whispering  lips,  full  of  brains  and 
souls  waiting  to  be  fed,  the  sound  of  its  hum  and  stir,  sent  a 
warm  thrill  through  her,  thrill  of  expectation,  of  desire.  She 
thought  of  that  man,  Jacques  Sennier,  hidden  somewhere, 
the  cause  of  all  that  was  happening  in  the  house,  of  all  that 
would  happen  almost  immediately  upon  the  stage.  She 
envied  him  with  intensity.  Then  she  looked  at  Claude  Heath's 
rather  grim  and  constrained  expression.  Was  it  possible  that 
Heath  did  not  share  her  feeling  of  envy? 


There  was  a  tap  at  the  door.  Heath  sprang  up  and  opened 
it.  Paul  Lane's  pale  and  discontented  face  appeared. 

"Halloa!  Haven't  seen  you  since  that  dinner!  May  I 
come  in  for  a  minute?" 

He  spoke  to  the  Mansfields. 

"Perfectly  marvellous!  Everyone  behind  the  scenes  is 
mad  about  it!  Annie  Meredith  says  she  will  make  the  success 
of  her  life  in  it.  Who's  that  Frenchwoman  with  Adelaide 
Shiffney?  Madame  Sennier,  the  composer's  wife — his  second, 
the  first  killed  herself.  Very  clever  woman.  She's  not  going 
to  kill  herself.  Sennier  says  he  could  do  nothing  without  her, 
never  would  have  done  this  opera  but  for  her.  She  found  him 
the  libretto,  kept  him  at  it,  got  the  Covent  Garden  manage- 
ment interested  in  it,  persuaded  Annie  Meredith  to  come  over 
from  South  America  to  sing  the  part.  An  extraordinary 
woman,  ugly,  but  a  will  of  iron,  and  an  ambition  that  can't 
be  kept  back.  Her  hour  of  triumph  to-night.  There  goes  the 
curtain." 

As  Lane  slipped  out  of  the  box,  he  whispered  to  Heath: 

"Mrs.  Shiffney  hopes  you'll  come  and  speak  to  her  between 
the  acts.  Her  name's  on  the  door." 

Heath  sat  down  a  little  behind  Mrs.  Mansfield.  Although 
the  curtain  was  now  up  he  noticed  that  Charmian,  with  raised 
opera-glasses,  was  earnestly  looking  at  Mrs.  Shiffney's  box. 
He  noticed,  too,  that  her  left  hand  shook  slightly,  almost 
imperceptibly. 

"Her  hour  of  triumph!"  Yes,  the  hour  proved  to  be  that. 
Madame  Sennier's  energies  had  not  been  expended  in  rain. 
From  the  first  bars  of  music,  from  the  first  actions  upon  the 
stage,  the  audience  was  captured  by  the  new  work.  There 
was  no  hesitating.  There  were  no  dangerous  moments. 
The  evening  was  like  a  crescendo,  admirably  devised  and 
carried  out.  And  through  it  all  Charmian  watched  the  ugly 
white  face  of  the  red-haired  woman  opposite  to  her,  lived 
imaginatively  in  that  woman's  heart  and  brain,  admired  her, 
almost  hated  her,  longed  to  be  what  she  was. 

Between  the  acts  she  saw  men  pouring  into  Mrs.  Shiffney's 
box.  And  every  one  was  presented  to  the  ugly  woman,  whose 
vivacity  and  animation  were  evidently  intense,  who  seemed 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        135 

to  demand  homage  as  a  matter  of  course.  Several  foreigners 
kissed  her  hand.  Max  Elliot's  whole  attitude,  as  he  bent  over 
her,  showed  adoration  and  enthusiasm.  Even  Paul  Lane  was 
smiling,  as  he  drew  her  attention  to  a  glove  split  by  his  energy 
in  applause. 

Heath  had  spoken  of  Mrs.  Shiffney's  message.  He  was 
evidently  reluctant  to  obey  it,  but  Charmian  insisted  on  his 
going. 

"I  want  to  know  what  Madame  Sennier  is  like.  You 
must  ask  her  if  she  is  happy,  find  out  how  happy  she  is." 

"Charmian,  Mr.  Heath  isn't  a  mental  detective!" 

"I  speak  such  atrocious  French!"  said  Heath,  looking 
nervous  and  miserable. 

"I  suppose  you  can  say,  'Chere  Madame,  fes per e  que  vous 
etes  Hen  contente  ce  soir?'  ' 

When  Heath  had  left  the  box  Mrs.  Mansfield  said  gravely 
to  her  daughter: 

"Charmian!" 

"Yes,  Madretta." 

"I  don't  think  you  are  behaving  very  kindly  this  evening. 
You  scarcely  seem  to  remember  that  Mr.  Heath  is  our  guest." 

"Against  his  will,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  that  was  almost 
hard.  There  was  a  hardness,  too,  in  her  whole  look  and 
manner. 

"I  think  that  only  makes  the  hostess's  obligation  the 
stronger,"  said  Mrs.  Mansfield.  "  I  don't  at  all  like  the  Margot 
manner  with  men." 

"I'm  sorry,  Madre;  but  I  had  no  idea  I  was  imitating 
Margot  Drake." 

Mrs.  Mansfield  said  no  more.  Charmian,  with  flushed 
cheeks  and  shining  eyes,  turned  to  look  once  more  at  Adelaide 
Shiffney's  box. 

In  about  three  minutes  she  saw  Mrs.  Shiffney  glance  behind 
her.  Max  Elliot,  who  was  still  with  her,  got  up  and  opened  the 
door,  and  Heath  stood  in  the  background.  Charmian  frowned 
and  pressed  her  little  teeth  on  her  lower  lip.  Her  body  felt 
stiff  with  attention,  with  scrutiny.  She  saw  Heath  come 
forward,  Max  Elliot  holding  him  by  the  arm,  and  talking 
eagerly  and  smiling.  Mrs.  Shiffney  smiled,  too,  laughed,  gave 


136        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

him  her  powerful  hand.  Now  he  was  being  introduced  to 
Madame  Sennier,  who  surely  appraised  him  with  one  swift, 
almost  cruelly  intelligent  glance. 

His  French!  His  French!  Charmian  trembled  for  it, 
for  him  because  of  it.  If  Mrs.  Mansfield  could  have  known 
how  solicitous,  how  tender,  how  motherly,  the  girl  felt  at  that 
moment  under  her  mask  of  shining,  radiant  hardness!  But 
Mrs.  Mansfield  was  glancing  about  the  house  with  grave  and 
even  troubled  eyes. 

Heath  was  talking  to  Madame  Sennier.  He  was  even 
sitting  down  beside  her.  She  spoke,  evidently  with  volubility, 
making  rapid  gestures  with  her  hands.  Then  she  paused. 
She  was  listening  attentively  to  Heath.  Mrs.  Shiffney  and 
Elliot  listened,  too,  as  if  absorbed.  Heath's  French  must 
really  be  excellent.  Why  had  he — ?  If  only  she  could  hear 
what  he  was  saying!  She  tingled  with  curiosity.  How  he 
held  them,  those  three  people!  From  here  he  looked  dis- 
tinguished, interesting.  He  stood  out  even  in  this  crowd  as 
an  interesting  man.  Madame  Sennier  made  an  upward  move- 
ment of  her  head,  full  of  will.  She  put  out  her  hand,  and  laid  it 
on  Heath's  arm.  Now  they  all  seemed  to  be  talking  together. 
Madame  Sennier  looked  radiant,  triumphant,  even  autocratic. 
She  pointed  toward  the  stage  emphatically,  made  elaborate 
descriptive  movements  with  her  hands.  A  bell  sounded  some- 
where. Heath  got  up.  In  a  moment  he  and  Max  Elliot  had 
left  the  box  together.  The  two  women  were  alone.  They 
leaned  toward  each  other  apparently  in  earnest  conversation. 

"I  know  they  are  talking  about  him!    I  know  they  are!" 

Charmian  actually  formed  the  words  with  her  lips.  The 
curtain  rose  as  Heath  quietly  entered  the  box.  Charmian 
did  not  turn  to  him  or  look  at  him  then.  Only  when  the  act 
was  over  did  she  move  and  say: 

"Well,  Mr.  Heath,  your  French  evidently  comes  at  call." 

"What — oh,  we  were  talking  in  English!" 

"Madame  Sennier  speaks  English?"  said  Mrs.  Mansfield. 

"Excellently!" 

Charmian  felt  disappointed. 

"Is  she  happy?"  she  asked,  moving  her  hand  on  the  edge 
of  the  box. 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        137 

"She  seems  so." 

"Did  you  tell  her  what  you  thought?" 

"Yes,"  said  Heath. 

His  voice  had  become  suddenly  deeper,  more  expressive. 

"I  told  her  that  I  thought  it  wonderful.  And  so  it  is. 
She  said — in  French  this:  'Ah,  my  friend,  wait  till  the  last 
act.  Then  it  is  no  longer  the  earthly  Paradise!'" 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence.  Then  Charmian  said,  in 
a  voice  that  sounded  rather  dry: 

"You  liked  her?" 

"I  don't  know.  Yes,  I  think  I  did.  We  were  all  rather 
carried  away,  I  suppose." 

"Carried  away!     By  what?" 

"  Well,  it  is  evidently  a  great  moment  in  Madame  Sennier's 
life.  One  must  sympathize." 

Charmian  looked  and  saw  two  spots  of  color  burning  high 
up  on  his  cheeks.  His  voice  had  suddenly  quivered. 

"I  should  think  so,"  said  Mrs.  Mansfield.  "This  evening 
probably  means  more  to  Madame  Sennier  even  than  to  her 
husband." 

Charmian  said  nothing  more  till  the  end  of  the  evening. 
Beneath  the  radiant  coolness  of  her  demeanor,  the  air  of 
triumphant  self-possession,  she  was  secretly  quivering  with 
excitement.  She  feared  to  betray  herself.  Soon  she  was 
spellbound  by  the  music  of  the  last  act  and  by  the  wonderful 
performance  of  Annie  Meredith.  As  she  listened,  leaning 
forward  in  the  box,  and  always  feeling  intensely  the  nearness 
to  her  of  Heath,  and  of  Heath's  strong  musical  talent,  she 
remembered  something  she  had  once  said  in  the  drawing-room 
in  Berkeley  Square,  "We  want  a  new  note."  Here  was  the 
new  note  in  French  music,  the  new  talent  given  to  the  wonder- 
ing and  delighted  world  to-night.  To-morrow  doubtless 
Europe  and  America  would  know  that  the  husband  of  the  red- 
haired  woman  opposite  had  taken  his  place  among  the  famous 
men  to  whom  the  world  must  pay  attention.  From  to-morrow 
thousands  of  art  lovers  would  be  looking  toward  Jacques 
Sennier  with  expectation,  the  curious  expectation  of  those 
who  crave  for  fresh  food  on  which  they  may  feed  their  intellects, 
and  their  souls.  The  great  tonic  of  a  new  development  in  art 


138        THE  WAY  OF   AMBITION 

was  offered  to  all  those  who  cared  to  take  it  by  the  man  who 
would  probably  be  staring  from  behind  the  footlights  at  the 
crowd  in  a  few  moments. 

If  only  the  new  note  had  been  English  I 

"It  shall  be!    It  shall  be!"  Charmian  repeated  to  herself. 

She  looked  again  and  again  at  Madame  Sennier,  striving 
to  grasp  the  secret  of  her  will  for  another,  even  while  she  gave 
herself  to  the  enchantment  of  the  music.  But  for  that  woman 
in  all  probability  the  music  would  never  have  been  given  life. 
Somewhere,  far  down  in  the  mystery  of  an  individual,  it  would 
have  lain,  corpse-like.  A  woman  had  willed  that  it  should 
live.  She  deserved  the  homage  she  had  received,  and  would 
receive  to-night.  For  she  had  made  her  man  do  a  great  thing, 
because  she  had  helped  him  to  understand  his  own  greatness. 

Suddenly,  out  of  the  almost  chaotic  excitement  caused  in 
Charmian  by  the  music,  and  by  her  secret  infatuation,  concrete 
knowledge  seemed  to  detach  itself  and  to  arise.  As,  when  she 
had  looked  at  the  island  in  the  Algerian  Garden,  she  had  felt 
"I  shall  be  here  some  day  with  him!"  so  now  she  seemed  to  be 
aware  that  the  future  would  show  a  brilliant  crowd  assembled 
in  some  great  theater,  not  for  Jacques  Sennier,  but  for  one 
near  her.  Really  she  was  violently  willing  that  it  should  be  so. 
But  she  thought  she  was  receiving — from  whom,  or  from  what, 
she  could  not  tell — a  mysterious  message. 

And  the  red-haired  woman's  place  was  filled  by  another. 

At  last  the  curtain  fell  on  the  final  scene,  and  the  storm 
which  meant  a  triumph  was  unchained.  Heath  sprang  up 
from  his  seat,  carried  away  by  a  generous  enthusiasm.  He 
did  not  know  how  to  be  jealous  of  anyone  who  could  do  a  really 
fine  thing.  Charmian,  in  the  midst  of  the  uproar,  heard  him 
shouting  "Bravo!"  behind  her,  in  a  voice  quick  with  excite- 
ment. His  talent  was  surely  calling  to  a  brother.  The  noise 
all  over  the  house  strengthened  gradually,  then  abruptly  rose 
like  a  great  wave.  A  small,  thin,  and  pale  man,  with  a  big 
nose,  a  mighty  forehead,  scanty  black  hair  and  beard,  and 
blinking  eyes,  had  stepped  out  before  the  curtain.  He  leaned 
forward,  made  a  movement  as  if  to  retreat,  was  stopped  by 
a  louder  roar,  stepped  quickly  to  the  middle  of  the  small  strip 
of  stage  that  was  visible,  and  stood  still  with  his  big  head 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        139 

slighty  thrust  out  toward  the  multitude  which  acclaimed  him. 

Chairman  turned  round  to  Claude  Heath,  who  towered 
above  her.  He  did  not  notice  her  movement.  He  was  gazing 
at  the  stage  while  he  violently  clapped  his  hands.  She  gazed 
up  at  him.  He  felt  her  eyes,  leaned  down.  For  a  moment 
they  looked  at  each  other,  while  the  noise  in  the  house  increased. 
Claude  saw  that  Charmian  wanted  to  speak  to  him — and  some- 
thing else.  After  a  moment,  during  which  the  blood  rose  in 
his  cheeks  and  forehead,  and  he  felt  as  if  he  were  out  in  wind 
and  rain,  in  falling  snow  and  stern  sunshine,  he  said: 

"What  is  it?" 

"All  this  ought  to  be  for  you.  Some  day  it  will  be — for 
you!" 


CHAPTER  Xin 

IN  the  studio  of  Mullion  House  that  night,  Harriet,  moving 
softly,  placed  a  plate  of  sandwiches  and  a  long  bottle  of 
Rhine  wine  before  she  went  up  to  bed.  Moonlight  shone  on 
the  scrap  of  garden,  gleamed  on  the  leaded  panes  of  the  studio 
windows,  from  which  the  orange-colored  curtains  were  drawn 
back.  The  aspect  of  the  big  room  had  changed  because  it  was 
summer.  It  looked  bigger,  less  cosy  without  a  fire.  One 
lamp  was  lighted  and  cast  a  gentle  glow  over  the  books  that 
lay  near  it,  and  over  the  writing-table  on  which  there  were 
sheets  of  manuscript  music.  The  piano  stood  open.  A  spray 
of  white  roses  in  a  tall  vase  looked  spectral  against  the  shadows. 
After  Harriet's  departure  the  clock  ticked  for  a  long  time  in 
an  empty  room. 

It  was  nearly  two  o'clock,  and  the  moon  was  waning,  when 
the  studio  door  was  opened  to  let  in  Heath.  He  was  alone. 
Holding  the  door  with  one  hand,  he  stood  and  stared  at  the 
room,  examined  it  with  a  sort  of  excited  and  close  attention. 
Then  he  took  off  his  hat,  shut  the  door,  laid  hat  and  coat  on 
the  sofa,  went  to  the  table  where  Harriet  had  put  the  tray, 
and  poured  out  a  glass  of  wine.  He  sighed,  looked  at  the  gold 
of  the  wine,  made  beautiful  by  the  lamplight,  drank  it,  and  sat 
down  in  the  worn  armchair  which  faced  the  line  of  window. 
Then  he  lit  a  cigar,  leaned  back,  and  smoked,  keeping  his  eyes 
on  the  glass. 

Upon  the  leaded  panes  the  faint  silver  shifted,  faded,  and 
presently  died.  Heath  watched,  and  thought,  "The  moon 
gone!"  He  did  not  feel  as  if  he  could  ever  wish  to  sleep  again. 
The  excitement  within  him  was  like  a  ravaging  disease.  He 
was  capable  of  excitement  that  never  comes  to  the  ordinary 
man,  although  he  took  sedulous  care  to  hide  that  fact.  His 
imagination  bristled  like  a  spear  held  by  one  alert  for  attack. 
What  was  life  going  to  do  to  him?  What  was  he  going  to  let 
it  do? 

140 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        141 

Charmian  Mansfield  loved  him,  and  believed  in  his  genius, 
as  he  did  not  believe,  or  had  not  till  now  believed  in  it.  He 
was  loved,  he  was  believed  in,  by  the  thin  mystery  of  a  modern 
girl,  who  had  known  many  men  with  talents,  with  names,  with 
big  reputations.  Under  that  triumphant  composure,  that 
almost  cruel  banter,  that  whimsical  airy  contempt,  that  cool 
frivolity  of  the  minx,  there  was  emotion,  there  was  love  for 
him  and  for  his  talent.  Always  that  night  he  thought  of  his 
talent  in  connection  with  Charmian's  love,  he  scarcely  knew 
why.  For  how  long  had  she  loved  him?  And  why  did  she 
love  him?  He  thought  of  his  body,  and  it  surprised  him  that 
she  loved  that.  He  thought  of  his  mind,  his  imagination,  his 
temper,  his  tricks,  his  faults,  his  habits.  He  thought  of  his 
deep  reserve,  and  of  the  intense  emotion  he  sometimes  felt 
when  he  was  quite  alone  and  composing.  Sometimes  he  felt 
like  a  great  fire  then.  Sometimes  he  felt  brutal,  almost  savage, 
decisive  in  a  sense  that  was  surely  cruel.  Did  she  suspect  all 
that?  Did  she  love  all  that  without  consciously  suspecting 
it?  Sometimes,  when  he  had  been  working  very  hard,  over- 
working perhaps,  he  felt  inclined  to  do  evil.  If  she  knew  that! 

But  she  did  not,  she  could  not  know  him.  Why,  then,  did 
she  love  him?  Heath  was  not  a  conceited  man,  but  he  did 
not  at  this  moment  doubt  Charmian's  love  for  him.  Though 
he  was  sometimes  child-like,  and  could  be,  like  most  men,  very 
blind,  he  had  a  keen  intellect  which  could  reason  about 
psychology.  He  knew  how  women  love  success.  He  knew 
how,  in  a  moment  of  excitement  such  as  that  at  the  end  of  the 
opera,  when  Jacques  Sennier  came  before  the  curtain,  they 
instinctively  concentrate  on  the  man  who  has  made  the  success. 
He  knew,  or  divined,  what  woman's  concentration  is.  And 
he  realized  the  bigness  of  the  tribute  paid  to  him  by  Charmian's 
abrupt  detachment  from  the  hour  and  the  man,  by  the  sweep 
of  her  brain  and  her  heart  to  him.  Any  conqueror  of  women 
might  have  been  proud  of  such  a  tribute,  have  considered  it 
rare.  Her  eyes,  her  voice,  in  the  tempest  they  had  thrilled 
him.  He  had  been  only  thinking  of  Sennier's  music  and  of 
Sennier,  of  art  and  the  human  being  behind  it.  Nothing 
within  him  had  consciously  called  to  Charmian.  Nor  had 
there — he  felt  sure  now — been  the  unconscious  call  sent  out 


142        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

by  the  man  of  talent  who  feels  himself  left  out  in  the  cold,  who 
cannot  stifle  the  greedy  voice  of  the  jealousy  which  he  despises. 
No,  the  initiative  had  been  wholly  hers.  And  something 
irresistible  must  have  moved  her, -driven  her,  to  do  what  she 
had  done.  She  must  have  been  mastered  by  an  impulse  bred 
out  of  strong  excitement.  She  had  been  mastered  by  an 
impulse. 

"All  this  ought  to  be  for  you.  Some  day  it  will  be  for 
you." 

She  had  only  whispered  the  words,  but  they  had  seemed  to 
stab  him,  with  so  much  mental  force  had  she  sent  them  out. 
Mrs.  Mansfield  had  not  heard  them.  And  how  extraordinary 
Charmian's  eyes  had  been  during  that  moment  when  she  and 
he  had  gazed  at  one  another.  He  had  not  known  eyes  could 
look  like  that,  as  if  the  whole  spirit  of  a  human  being  were 
crouching  in  them,  intent.  How  far  away  from  the  eyes  the 
human  spirit  must  often  be! 

As  Heath  thought  of  Charmian's  eyes  he  felt  as  if  he  knew 
very  little  of  real  life  yet. 

She  had  turned  away.  Again  and  again  Jacques  Sennier 
had  been  called.  He  had  returned  with  Annie  Meredith,  to 
whom  he  had  made  the  gift  of  a  splendid  r61e.  They  shook 
hands  before  the  audience,  not  perfunctorily,  but  as  if  they 
loved  one  another,  were  bound  together,  comrades  in  the 
beautiful.  He — Heath — had  stood  upright  again,  had  gone 
on  applauding  with  the  rest.  But  his  thoughts  had  then  all 
been  on  himself.  "If  all  this  were  for  me!  If  I  should  ever 
have  such  an  hour  in  my  life,  such  a  tribute  as  this!  If  within 
me  is  the  capacity  to  conquer  all  these  diverse  natures  and 
temperaments,  to  weld  them  together  in  a  common  desire, 
the  desire  to  show  thankfulness  for  what  a  man  has  been  able 
to  give  them!"  And  he  had  thrilled  for  the  first  time  with  a 
fierce  new  longing,  the  longing  for  the  best  that  is  meant  by 
fame. 

This  longing  persisted  now. 

Heath  had  left  Mrs.  Mansfield  and  Charmian  under  the 
arcade  of  the  Opera  House,  after  putting  them  into  their 
car.  The  crush  coming  out  had  been  great.  They  had  had 
to  wait  for  nearly  half  an  hour  in  the  vestibule.  During 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        143 

that  time  the  Mansfields  had  talked  to  many  friends.  Char- 
mian  had  completely  regained  her  composure.  She  had  intro- 
duced Heath  to  several  people,  among  others  to  Kit  and  Margot 
Drake,  who  spoke  of  nothing  but  the  opera  and  its  composer 
and  Annie  Meredith.  The  vestibule  was  full  of  the  voices  of 
praise.  Everybody  seemed  unusually  excited.  Paul  Lane 
had  actually  come  up  to  them  with  beads  of  perspiration 
standing  on  his  forehead,  and  his  eyes  shining  with  excitement. 

"This  is  a  red-letter  night  in  my  life,"  he  had  said.  "I 
have  felt  a  strong  and  genuine  emotion.  There's  a  future 
for  music,  after  all,  and  a  big  one.  If  only  there  were  one  or 
two  more  Jacques  Senniers!" 

Even  then  Charmian  had  not  looked  again  at  Heath.  She 
had  answered  lightly. 

"  Perhaps  there  are.  Who  knows?  Even  Monsieur  Sennier 
was  practically  unknown  four  hours  ago." 

"There  are  not  many  parts  of  the  civilized  world  in  which 
his  name  will  be  unknown  in  four  days  from  now,"  said  Paul 
Lane,  "or  even  in  twenty-four  hours.  I'm  going  to  meet 
him  and  his  wife  at  supper  at  Adelaide  Shiffney's,  so  I  must 
say  good-night — oh,  and  good-night,  Mr.  Heath." 

Oh — and  good-night,  Mr.  Heath. 

Claude  had  walked  all  the  way  home  alone  slowly.  He 
had  passed  through  Piccadilly  Circus,  through  Regent  Street, 
through  Oxford  Street,  along  the  north  side  of  the  closed  and 
deserted  Park  on  which  the  faint  moonlight  lay.  When  he 
reached  his  door  he  had  not  gone  in.  He  had  turned,  had 
paced  up  and  down.  The  sight  of  a  very  large  policeman 
looking  attentive,  then  grimly  inquiring,  then  crudely  suspi- 
cious, had  finally  decided  him  to  enter  his  house. 

What  was  life  going  to  do  to  him  if  he  did  not  hold  back, 
did  not  persist  any  longer  in  his  mania  for  refusal?  There 
was  a  new  world  spread  out  before  him.  He  stood  upon  its 
border.  He  wanted  to  step  into  it.  But  something  within 
him,  something  that  seemed  obscure,  hesitated,  was  perhaps 
afraid.  In  his  restless  mood,  in  his  strong  excitement,  he 
wanted  to  crush  that  thing  down,  to  stifle  its  voice.  Caution 
seemed  to  him  almost  effeminate  just  then.  He  remembered 
how  one  day  Charmian  had  said  to  him,  after  an  argument 


144        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

about  psychology:  "Really,  Mr.  Heath,  whatever  you  may 
say,  your  strongest  instinct  is  a  selfish  one,  the  instinct  of 
self-preservation. ' ' 

What  was  Jacques  Sennier's  strongest  instinct? 

Madame  Sennier  had  made  a  powerful  impression  on  Heath, 
and  he  had  been  greatly  flattered  by  the  deep  attention  with 
which  she  had  listened  to  what  he  had  to  say  about  her  hus- 
band's opera. 

"Here's  a  man  who  knows  what  he  is  talking  about,"  she 
exclaimed,  when  he  finished  speaking.  When  he  got  up  to 
leave  the  box  she  had  looked  full  into  his  eyes  and  said: 
"You  are  going  to  do  something,  too." 

Could  Jacques  Sennier  have  won  his  triumph  alone? 

Impulse  was  boiling  up  in  Heath.  After  all  that  had 
happened  that  night  he  felt  as  if  he  could  not  go  to  bed  with- 
out accomplishing  some  decisive  action.  Powers  were  on 
tiptoe  within  him  surely  ready  for  the  giant  leap. 

He  got  up,  went  to  the  piano,  went  to  his  writing-table, 
fingered  the  manuscript  paper  covered  with  tiny  notes  which 
lay  scattered  upon  it.  But,  no,  it  would  be  absurd,  mad,  to 
begin  to  work  at  such  an  hour.  And,  beside,  he  could  not 
work.  He  could  not  be  patient.  He  wanted  to  do  something 
with  a  rush,  to  change  his  life  in  a  moment,  to  take  a  leap 
forward,  as  Sennier  had  done  that  night,  a  leap  from  shadow 
into  light.  He  wanted  to  grasp  something,  to  have  a  new 
experience.  All  the  long  refusal  of  his  life,  which  had  not 
seemed  to  cost  him  very  much  till  this  moment,  abruptly, 
revengefully  attacked  him  in  the  very  soul,  crying:  "You 
must  pay  for  me!  Pay!  Pay!"  He  hated  the  thought  of 
his  remote  and  solitary  life.  He  hated  the  memory  of  the 
lonely  evenings  passed  in  the  study  of  scores,  or  in  composition, 
by  the  lamp  that  shed  a  restricted  light. 

The  dazzle  of  the  Covent  Garden  lamps  was  still  in  his  eyes. 
He  longed,  he  lusted  for  fame. 

Afterwards  he  said  to  himself:  "That  night  I  was  'out'  of 
myself." 

Charmian  had  spurred  his  nature.  It  tingled  still.  There 
had  been  something  that  was  almost  like  venom  in  that 
whisper  of  hers,  which  yet  surely  showed  her  love.  Perhaps 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        145 

instinctively  she  knew  that  he  needed  venom,  and  that  she 
alone  could  supply  it. 

The  strangest  thing  of  all  was  that  she  had  never  heard 
his  music,  knew  nothing  at  first  hand  of  his  talent,  yet  believed 
in  it  with  such  vital  force,  such  completeness.  There  was 
something  almost  great  in  that.  She  was  a  woman  who 
absolutely  trusted  her  instinct.  And  her  instinct  must  have 
told  her  that  in  him,  Claude  Heath,  there  was  some  particle 
of  greatness. 

He  loved  her  just  then  for  that. 

"Oh— and  good-night,  Mr.  Heath." 

Claude's  cheeks  burned  as  if  Paul  Lane  had  laid  a  whip 
across  them. 

Again,  as  when  he  first  entered  it  that  night,  he  looked  at 
the  big  room.  How  had  he  ever  been  able  to  think  it  cosy, 
home-like  ?  It  was  dreary,  forbidding,  the  sad  hermitage  of  one 
who  was  resolved  to  turn  his  back  on  life,  on  the  true  life  of 
close  human  relations,  of  inspiring  intimacies,  of  that  inter- 
course which  should  be  as  bread  of  Heaven  to  the  soul.  It 
was  a  hateful  room.  Nothing  great,  nothing  to  reach  the 
hearts  of  men  could  be  conceived,  brought  to  birth  in  its 
atmosphere.  Jacques  Sennier,  shut  in  alone,  could  never 
have  written  his  opera  here.  In  vain  to  try. 

With  an  impulse  of  defiant  anger  Claude  went  to  the 
writing-table,  snatched  up  the  music  sheets  which  lay  scattered 
upon  it,  tore  them  across  and  across.  There  should  be  an 
end  to  it,  an  end  to  austere  futilities  which  led,  which  could 
lead,  to  nothing.  In  that  moment  of  unnatural  excitement 
he  saw  all  his  past  as  a  pale  eccentricity.  He  was  bitterly 
ashamed  of  it.  He  regretted  it  with  his  whole  soul,  and  he 
resolved  to  have  done  with  it. 

Brushing  the  fragments  of  manuscript  off  on  to  the  floor 
he  sat  quickly  down  at  the  table.  Something  within  him 
was  trying  to  think,  to  reason,  but  he  would  not  let  it.  He 
saw  Charmian's  eyes,  he  heard  her  quick  whisper  through  the 
applause.  She  knew  for  him,  as  Madame  Sennier  had  known 
for  her  husband.  Often  others  know  us  better  than  we  know 
ourselves.  The  true  wisdom  is  to  banish  the  conceit  of  self, 
to  trust  to  the  instinct  of  love. 
10 


146       THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

He  took  a  pen,  leaned  over  the  table,  wrote  a  letter  swiftly, 
violently  even.  His  pen  seemed  to  form  the  words  by  itself. 
He  was  unconscious  of  guiding  it.  The  letter  was  not  long, 
only  two  sides  of  a  sheet.  He  blotted  it,  thrust  it  into  an 
envelope,  addressed,  closed,  and  stamped  it,  got  up,  took  his 
hat,  and  went  out  of  the  studio. 

In  a  moment  he  was  in  the  deserted  road.  The  large 
policeman,  who  had  eyed  him  with  such  grave  suspicion,  was 
gone.  No  one  was  in  sight.  The  silver  of  the  moonlight 
had  given  place  to  a  faint  grayness,  a  weariness  of  the  night 
falling  toward  the  arms  of  dawn. 

Claude  walked  swiftly  on,  turned  the  corner,  and  came 
into  the  thoroughfare  which  skirts  Kensington  Gardens  and 
the  Park.  Some  fifty  yards  away  there  was  a  letter  box. 
He  hurried  toward  it,  driven  on  by  defiance  of  that  within 
him  which  would  fain  have  held  him  back,  by  the  blind  in- 
stinct to  trample  which  sometimes  takes  hold  of  a  strong  and 
emotional  nature  in  a  moment  of  unusual  excitement. 

"The  great  refuser!    No,  I'll  not  be  that  any  longer." 

As  he  drew  near  to  the  letter  box  he  felt  that  till  now  he 
had  been  a  composer.  Henceforth  he  would  be  a  man.  He 
had  lived  for  an  art.  Henceforth  he  would  live  for  life,  and 
would  make  life  feel  his  art. 

He  dropped  his  letter  into  the  box. 
v  In  falling  out  of  his  sight  it  made  a  faint,  uneasy  noise. 

Claude  stood  there  like  one  listening. 

The  grayness  seemed  to  grow  slightly  more  livid  over  the 
tree-tops  and  behind  the  branches.  The  letter  did  not  speak 
again.  So  he  thought  of  that  tiny  noise,  as  the  speech  of  the 
dropping  letter.  It  must  have  slid  down  against  the  side  of 
the  box.  Now  it  was  lying  still.  There  was  nothing  more 
for  him  to  do  but  to  go  home.  Yet  he  waited  before  the  letter 
box,  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  small  white  plaque  on  which 
was  printed  the  time  of  the  next  delivery — eight-forty  A.M. 

Was  it  the  sound,  or  was  it  the  movement  preceding  the 
sound,  which  had  worked  a  cold  change  in  his  heart?  He 
felt  almost  stunned  by  what  he  had  done,  like  a  man  who  strikes 
and  sees  the  result  of  his  blow,  who  has  not  measured  its  force , 
and  sees  his  victim  measure  it.  Eight-forty  A.M. 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        147 

A  step  sounded.  He  looked,  and  saw  in  the  distance  the 
large  policeman  slowly  advancing. 

When  he  was  again  in  his  house  he  closed  the  front  door 
softly,  and  went  once  more  to  the  studio.  He  looked  round  it, 
examining  the  familiar  objects:  the  piano,  his  work  table,  the 
books,  the  deep,  well-worn,  homely  chairs,  the  rugs  which 
Mrs.  Mansfield  had  liked.  On  the  floor,  by  his  table,  lay  the 
fragments  of  manuscript  music.  How  had  he  come  to  tear  it, 
his  last  composition? 

He  went  over  to  the  window,  opened  a  square  of  the  glass, 
sat  down  on  the  window-seat,  and  looked  out  to  the  tiny 
garden.  A  faint  smell,  as  of  dewy  earth,  rose  from  it,  fresh, 
delicate,  and — somehow — pathetic.  As  Claude  leaned  on  the 
window-sill  this  frail  scent,  which  seemed  part  of  the  dying 
night,  connected  itself  in  his  mind  with  his  past  life.  He  drew 
it  in  through  his  nostrils,  he  thought  of  it,  and  vaguely  it 
floated  about  the  long  days  and  nights  of  his  work-filled 
loneliness,  making  them  sad,  yet  sweet.  He  had  had  an  ideal 
and  he  had  striven  to  guard  it  carefully.  He  had  lived  for 
it.  To-night  he  had  cast  it  out  in  a  moment  of  strange  excite- 
ment. Had  he  done  wrong?  Had  he  been  false  to  himself? 

The  mere  fact  that  he  was  sitting  and  forming  such  ques- 
tions in  his  mind  at  such  a  moment  proved  to  him  that  he  had 
acted  madly  when  he  had  written  and  posted  his  letter.  And 
he  was  overcome  by  a  sense  of  dread.  He  feared  himself,  that 
man  who  could  act  on  a  passionate  impulse,  brushing  aside  all 
the  restraints  that  his  reason  would  oppose.  And  he  feared 
now  almost  unspeakably  the  result  of  what  he  had  done.  He 
had  given  himself  to  the  life  which  till  now  he  had  always 
avoided.  He  had  broken  with  the  old  life. 

At  eight-forty  that  morning  his  letter  would  be  taken  out 
of  the  box  and  would  start  on  its  journey.  Before  night  it 
would  have  been  read  and  probably  answered.  Sweat  broke 
out  on  his  face — a  feeling  of  desperation  seized  him.  He 
loved  his  complete  command  of  his  own  life,  complete,  that  is, 
in  the  human  sense.  He  had  never  known  how  much  he  loved 
it,  clung  to  it,  till  now.  And  he  must  part  from  it.  He  had 
invited  another  to  join  with  him  in  the  directing  of  his  life. 
He  had  written  burning  words.  The  thought  of  Madame 


148        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

Sennier  and  all  she  had  done  for  her  husband  had  winged  his 
pen. 

The  delicate  smell  from  the  little  garden  recalled  him  to 
the  center.  He  had  been,  he  felt,  crazily  travelling  along 
some  broken  edge.  The  earth  poured  forth  sobriety,  truth 
dew-laden.  He  had  to  accept  the  influence.  No  longer,  in 
this  grayness  that  grew,  that  would  soon  melt  in  rose  and  in 
gold,  did  the  dazzle  of  the  Covent  Garden  lamps  blind  his  eyes. 
In  this  coolness  of  the  approaching  morning  lust  for  anything 
was  impossible  to  him.  Fame  was  but  a  shadow  when  the 
breast  of  the  great  mother  heaved  under  the  least  of  her  chil- 
dren. A  bird  chirped.  Its  little  voice  meant  more  to  Claude 
than  the  tempest  of  applause  which  had  carried  him  away  in 
the  theater. 

Nature  took  him  in  the  dawn  and  carried  him  back  to  him- 
self. And  that  was  terrible.  For  when  he  was  himself  he 
knew  that  he  wished  he  had  never  written  that  letter  of  love 
to  Charmian. 

The  dawn  broke.  The  light,  creeping  in  through  the  lattice, 
touched  the  fragments  of  music  paper  which  lay  scattered 
over  the  floor.  Claude  looked  at  them,  and  thought: 

"If  only  my  letter  lay  there  instead!" 


CHAPTER  XIV 

IT  was  the  end  of  January  in  the  following  year,  and  Char- 
mian  and  Claude  Heath  had  been  married  for  three  months. 
The  honeymoon  was  over.    The  new  strangeness  of  being 
husband  and  wife  had  worn  away  a  little  from  both  of  them. 
Life  had  been  disorganized.    Now  it  had  to  be  rearranged,  if 
possible,  be  made  compact,  successful,  beautiful. 

For  three  months  Claude  had  done  no  work.  Charmian 
and  he  had  been  to  Italy  for  their  honeymoon,  and  had  visited, 
among  other  places,  Milan,  Florence,  Siena,  Perugia,  Rome, 
and  Naples.  They  had  not  stayed  their  feet  at  the  Italian 
lakes.  Charmian  had  said: 

"Every  banal  couple  who  want  to  pump  up  a  feeling  of 
romance  go  there.  Don't  let  us  join  the  round-eyed,  open- 
mouthed  crowd,  and  be  smirked  at  by  German  waiters.  I 
couldn't  bear  it!" 

Her  horror  of  being  included  in  the  crowd  pursued  her  even 
to  the  church  door  of  St.  Paul's,  Knightsbridge. 

Now  she  was  secretly  obsessed  by  one  idea,  one  great 
desire.  She  and  Claude  must  emerge  from  the  crowd  with  all 
possible  rapidity.  The  old  life  of  obscurity  must  be  left 
behind,  the  new  life  of  celebrity,  of  fame,  be  entered  upon. 
Both  of  them  must  settle  down  now  to  work,  Claude  to  his 
composition,  she  to  her  campaign  on  his  behalf.  Of  this 
latter  she  did  not  breathe  a  word  to  anyone.  Her  instinct 
told  her  to  keep  her  ambition  as  secret  as  possible  for  the 
present.  Later  on  she  would  emerge  into  the  open  as  an 
English  Madame  Sennier.  But  the  time  for  laurel  crowns 
was  not  yet  ripe.  All  the  spade  work  had  yet  to  be  done,  with 
discretion,  abnegation,  a  thousand  delicate  precautions.  She 
must  not  be  a  young  wife  in  a  hurry.  She  must  be,  or  try  to 
be,  patient. 

The  little  old  house  near  St.  Petersburg  Place  had  been  got 
rid  of,  and  Charmian  and  Claude  had  just  settled  in  Kensington 
Square. 

149 


150       THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

Charmian  thought  of  this  house  in  Kensington  Square  as  a 
compromise.  Claude  had  wished  to  give  up  Mullion  House 
on  his  marriage.  Seeing  the  obligation  to  enter  upon  a  new 
way  of  life  before  him  he  had  resolved,  almost  with  fierceness, 
to  break  away  from  his  austere  past,  to  destroy,  so  far  as  was 
possible,  all  associations  that  linked  him  with  it.  With  an 
intensity  that  was  honorable,  he  set  out  to  make  a  success  of 
his  life  with  Charmian.  To  do  that,  he  felt  that  he  must  create 
a  great  change  in  himself.  He  had  become  wedded  to  habits. 
Those  habits  must  all  be  divorced  from  him.  An  atmosphere 
had  enfolded  him,  had  become  as  it  were  part  of  him,  drowning 
his  life  in  its  peculiar  influence.  He  must  emerge  from  it. 
But  he  would  never  be  able  to  emerge  from  it  in  the  little 
old  house  which  he  loved.  So  he  got  rid  of  his  lease,  with 
Charmian's  acquiescence. 

She  did  not  really  want  to  live  on  the  north  side  of  the  Park. 
And  the  neighborhood  was  "Bayswatery."  But  she  guessed 
that  Claude  was  not  quite  happy  in  deserting  his  character- 
istic roof-tree,  and  she  eagerly  sought  for  another.  It  was 
found  in  Kensington  Square.  Several  interesting  and  even 
famous  persons  lived  there.  The  houses  were  old,  not  large, 
compact.  They  had  a  "flavor"  of  culture,  which  set  them 
apart  from  the  new  and  mushroom  dwellings  of  London,  and 
from  all  flats  whatsoever.  They  were  suitable  to  "artistic" 
people.  A  great  actress,  much  sought  after  in  the  social  world, 
had  lived  for  years  in  this  square.  A  famous  musician  was 
opposite  to  her.  A  baronet,  who  knew  how  to  furnish,  and 
whose  wife  gave  delightful  small  parties,  was  next  door  but 
three.  A  noted  novelist  had  just  moved  there  from  a  flat  in 
Queen  Anne's  Mansions.  In  fact,  there  was  a  cachet  on 
Kensington  Square. 

And  though  it  was  rather  far  out,  you  can  go  almost  any- 
where in  ten  minutes  if  you  can  afford  to  take  a  taxi-cab. 
Charmian  and  Claude  had  fifteen  hundred  a  year  between  them. 
She  had  no  doubt  of  their  being  able  to  take  taxi-cabs  on  such 
an  income.  And,  later  on,  of  course  Claude  would  make  a  lot 
of  money.  Jacques  Sennier's  opera  was  bringing  him  in  thou- 
sands of  pounds,  and  he  had  received  great  offers  for  future 
works  from  America,  where  Le  Paradis  Terrestre  had  just 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        151 

made  a  furore  at  the  Metropolitan  Opera  House.  He  and 
Madame  Sennier  were  in  New  York  now,  having  a  more  than 
lovely  time.  The  generous  American  nation  had  taken  them 
both  to  its  heart.  Charmian  had  read  several  accounts  of 
their  triumphs,  artistic  and  social,  in  English  newspapers. 
She  had  said  to  herself  "Ours  presently!"  And  with  renewed 
and  vital  energy,  she  had  devoted  herself  afresh  to  the  task  of 
"getting  into"  the  new  house. 

Mrs.  Mansfield  had  helped  her,  with  sober  love  and  devo- 
tion. 

Now  at  last  the  house  was  ready,  four  servants  were  en- 
gaged, and  the  ceremony  of  hanging  the  cremaillhe  was  being 
duly  accomplished. 

The  Heaths'  house-warming  had  brought  together  Char- 
mian's  friends.  Heath,  true  to  his  secret  determination 
to  break  away  from  his  old  life,  had  wished  that  it  should  be 
so.  His  few  intimates  in  London  were  not  in  the  Mansfields' 
set,  and  would  not  "mix  in"  very  well  with  Kit  and  Margot 
Drake,  the  Elliots,  the  Burningtons,  Paul  Lane,  and  the 
many  other  people  with  whom  Charmian  was  intimate;  who 
went  where  she  had  always  been  accustomed  to  go,  and  who 
spoke  her  language.  So  it  was  Charmian's  party  and  Heath 
played  the  part  of  host  to  about  fifty  people,  most  of  whom 
were  almost,  or  quite,  strangers  to  him. 

And  he  played  it  well,  though  perhaps  with  a  certain 
anxiety  which  he  could  not  quite  conceal.  For  he  was  in  a 
new  country  with  people  to  all  of  whom  it  was  old. 

Late  in  the  evening  he  at  last  had  a  few  minutes  alone  with 
his  mother-in-law.  The  relief  to  him  was  great.  As  he  sat 
with  her  on  a  sofa  in  the  second  of  the  two  small  drawing- 
rooms  under  a  replica  of  the  Winged  Victory,  and  a  tiny  full- 
length  portrait  of  Charmian  as  a  child  in  a  white  frock,  standing 
against  a  pale  blue  background,  by  Burne- Jones,  he  felt  like  a 
man  who  had  been  far  away  from  himself,  and  who  was  sud- 
denly again  with  himself.  Mrs.  Mansfield's  quiet  tender- 
ness flowed  over  him,  but  unostentatiously.  She  had  much 
to  conceal  from  Claude  now;  her  understanding  of  the  struggle, 
the  fear,  the  almost  desperate  determination  within  him,  her 
deep  sympathy  with  him  in  his  honorable  conduct,  her  anxiety 


152       THE  kWAY  OF  AMBITION 

about  his  future  with  her  child,  her  painful  comprehension  of 
Charmian,  which  did  not  abate  her  love  for  the  girl,  but  per- 
haps strengthened  it,  giving  it  wings  of  pity.  She  was  one  of 
those  middle-aged  people  of  great  intelligence,  who  have 
learned  through  deep  experience,  to  divine.  Her  power  had  not 
failed  her  during  the  period  of  her  daughter's  engagement  to 
Heath.  If  she  had  not  acted  strongly  it  was  because  she  was 
supremely  delicate  in  mind,  and  had  a  great  respect  for  personal 
liberty.  She  disliked  intensely  those  elderly  people  who  are 
constantly  trying  to  interfere  with  the  happiness  of  youth. 
Perhaps  she  was  overscrupulous  in  her  reserve.  Perhaps  she 
should  have  acted  on  the  prompting  of  her  quick  understanding. 
She  did  not.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  could  not. 

She  could  not  tell  her  child  that  Claude  Heath  was  not 
really  in  love.  Nor  could  she  tell  Charmian  that  an  affection 
threaded  through  and  through  with  a  personal,  and  rather 
vulgar,  ambition  is  not  the  kind  of  affection  likely  to  form  a 
firm  basis  for  the  building  of  happiness. 

So  she  had  to  hide  her  understanding,  her  regret,  her 
anxiety.  She  alone  knew  whether  pride  helped  her,  perhaps 
had  helped  to  prompt  her,  to  reticence,  to  concealment. 
She  had  been  Claude  Heath's  great  friend.  The  jealousies 
of  women  are  strong.  She  knew  herself  free  from  jealousy. 
But  another  woman,  even  her  own  daughter,  might  misunder- 
stand. It  was  bitter  to  think  so,  but  she  did  think  so.  And 
her  lips  were  sealed.  Beneath  the  more  human  fears  in  her 
crouched  a  fear  that  seemed  apart,  almost  curiously  isolated 
and  very  definite,  the  fear  for  Claude  Heath's  strange  talent. 

On  the  night  of  the  house-warming,  as  they  sat  together 
hearing  the  laughter,  the  buzz  of  talk,  from  those  near  them; 
as,  a  moment  later,  they  heard  those  sounds  diminish  upon  the 
narrow  staircase,  when  everybody  but  themselves  trooped 
down  gaily  to  "play  with  a  little  food  unceremoniously,"  as 
Charmian  expressed  it,  Mrs.  Mansfield  found  herself  thinking 
of  her  first  visit  to  the  big  studio  in  Mullion  House,  and  of 
those  Kings  of  the  East  whom  the  man  beside  her  had  made 
to  live  in  her  warm  imagination. 

"What  is  it?"  Claude  said,  when  the  human  sounds  in 
the  house  came  up  from  under  their  feet. 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        153 

"From  to-morrow!"  she  answered,  looking  at  him  with 
her  strong,  intense  eyes. 

"From  to-morrow — yes,  Madre?" 

She  put  her  thin  and  firm  hand  on  his. 

"Life  begins  again,  the  life  of  work  put  off  for  a  time. 
To-morrow  you  take  it  up  once  more." 

"Yes— yes!" 

He  glanced  about  the  pretty  room,  listened  to  the  noise 
of  the  gaieties  below  them.  Distinctly  he  heard  Max  Elliot's 
genial  laugh. 

"Of  course,"  he  said.  "I  must  start  again  on  something. 
The  question  is,  what  on?" 

"Surely  you  have  something  in  hand?" 

"I  had.  But— well,  I've  left  it  for  so  long  that  I  don  t 
know  whether  I  could  get  back  into  the  mood  which  enabled 
me  to  start  it.  I  don't  believe  I  could  somehow.  I  think  it 
would  be  best  to  begin  on  something  quite  fresh." 

"You  know  that.  Do  you  think  you  will  like  the  new 
workroom?" 

"Charmian  has  made  it  very  pretty  and  cozy,"  he  answered. 

His  imaginative  eyes  looked  suddenly  distressed,  almost 
persecuted,  and  he  raised  his  eyebrows. 

"She  is  very  clever  at  creating  prettiness  around  her,"  he 
continued,  after  an  instant  of  silence,  during  which  Mrs. 
Mansfield  looked  down.  "It  is  quite  wonderful.  And  how 
energetic  she  is!" 

"Yes,  Charmian  can  be  very  energetic  when  she  likes. 
Adelaide  Shiffney  never  turned  up  to-night." 

"She  telegraphed  this  morning  that  she  had  to  go  over 
unexpectedly  to  Paris.  Something  to  do  with  the  Senniers 
probably.  You  know  how  devoted  she  is  to  him.  And  now 
he  is  the  rage  in  America,  Charmian  says.  Every  day  I 
expect  to  hear  that  Mrs.  Shiffney  had  sailed  for  New  York." 

He  laughed,  but  not  quite  naturally. 

"  What  a  change  in  his  life  that  evening  at  Covent  Garden 
made!"  he  added. 

"And  what  a  change  in  yours!"  was  Mrs.  Mansfield's 
thought. 

"He  found  himself,  as  people  call  it,  on  that  night,  I  sup- 


154        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

pose,"  she  said.  "He  is  one  of  those  men  with  a  talent  made 
for  the  great  public.  And  he  knew  it,  perhaps,  for  the  first 
time  that  night.  He  is  launched  now  on  his  destined  career." 

"You  believe  in  destiny?" 

She  detected  the  sadness  she  had  surprised  in  his  eyes  in  his 
voice  now. 

"Perhaps  in  our  making  of  it." 

"Rather  than  in  some  great  Power's  imposing  of  it  upon 
us?" 

"Ah,  it's  so  difficult  to  know!  When  I  was  a  child  we  had 
a  game  we  loved.  We  went  into  a  large  room  which  was  pitch 
dark.  A  person  was  hidden  in  it  who  had  a  shilling.  Which- 
ever child  found  that  person  had  the  shilling.  There  were 
terror  and  triumph  in  that  game.  It  was  scarcely  like  a  game, 
it  roused  our  feelings  so  strongly." 

"It  is  not  everyone's  destiny  to  find  the  holder  of  the 
shilling,"  said  Claude. 

For  a  moment  their  eyes  met.     Claude  suddenly  reddened. 

"Have  I?  Does  she  suspect?  Does  she  know?"  went 
through  his  mind.  And  even  Mrs.  Mansfield  felt  embarrassed. 
For  in  that  moment  it  was  as  if  they  had  spoken  to  each  other 
with  a  terrible  frankness  despite  the  silence  of  their  lips. 

"Shan't  we  go  down?"  said  Claude.  "Surely  you  want 
something  to  eat,  Madre?" 

"No,  really.     And  I  like  a  quiet  talk  with  my  new  son." 

He  said  nothing,  but  she  saw  the  strong  affection  in  his 
face,  lighting  it,  and  she  knew  Claude  loved  her  almost  as  a 
son  may  love  a  perfect  mother.  She  wished  that  she  dared 
to  trust  that  love  completely.  But  the  instinctive  reserve  of 
the  highly  civilized  held  her  back.  And  she  only  said: 

"You  must  not  let  marriage  interfere  too  much  with  your 
work,  Claude.  I  care  very  much  for  that.  For  years  your 
work  was  everything  to  you.  It  can't  be  that,  it  oughtn't  to 
be  that  now.  But  I  want  your  marriage  with  Charmian  to 
help,  not  to  hinder  you.  Be  true  to  your  own  instinct  in  your 
art  and  surely  all  must  go  well." 

"Yes,  yes.  To-morrow  I  must  make  a  fresh  start.  I 
could  never  be  an  idler.  I  must — I  must  try  to  use  life  as  food 
for  my  art!" 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        155 

He  was  speaking  out  his  thought  of  the  night  when  he 
wrote  his  letter  to  Charmian.  But  how  cold,  how  doubtful 
it  seemed  when  clothed  in  words. 

"Some  can  do  that,"  said  Mrs.  Mansfield.  "But,  as  I 
remember  saying  on  the  night  of  Charmian's  return  from 
Algiers,  Swinburne's  food  was  Putney.  There  is  no  rule. 
Follow  your  instinct." 

She  spoke  with  a  sort  of  strong  pressure.  And  again  their 
eyes  met. 

"How  well  she  understands  me!"  he  thought.  "Does  she 
understand  me  too  well?" 

He  became  hot,  then  cold,  at  the  thought  that  perhaps  she 
had  divined  his  lack  of  love  for  her  daughter. 

For  marriage  with  Charmian,  and  three  months  of  intimate 
intercourse  with  her,  had  not  made  Claude  love  her.  He 
admired  her  appearance.  He  felt,  sometimes  strongly,  her 
physical  attraction.  Her  slim  charm  did  not  leave  him  un- 
moved. Often  he  felt  obliged  to  respect  her  energy,  her 
vitality.  But  anything  that  is  not  love  is  far  away  from  love. 
In  marrying  Charmian,  Claude  had  made  a  secret  sacrifice  on 
the  altar  of  honor.  He  had  done  "the  decent  thing." 
Impulse  had  driven  him  into  a  mistake  and  he  had  "paid  for 
it"  like  a  man  without  a  word  of  complaint  to  anyone.  He 
had  hoped  earnestly,  almost  angrily,  that  love  would  be  sud- 
denly born  out  of  marriage,  that  thus  his  mistake  would  be 
cancelled,  his  right  dealing  rewarded  beautifully. 

It  had  not  been  so.  So  he  walked  in  the  vast  solitude  of 
secrecy.  He  had  become  a  fine  humbug,  he  who  by  nature 
was  rather  drastically  sincere.  And  he  knew  not  how  to  face 
the  future  with  hope,  seeing  no  outlet  from  the  cage  into  which 
he  had  walked.  To-night,  as  Mrs.  Mansfield  spoke,  with  that 
peculiar  firm  pressure,  he  thought:  "Perhaps  I  shall  find 
salvation  in  work."  If  she  had  divined  the  secret  he  could 
never  tell  her  perhaps  she  had  seen  the  only  way  out.  The 
true  worker,  the  worker  who  is  great,  uses  the  troubles,  the 
sorrows,  even  the  great  tragedies  of  life  as  material,  combines 
them  in  a  whole  that  is  precious,  lays  them  as  balm,  or  as 
bitter  tonic  on  the  wounds  of  the  world.  And  so  all  things  in 
his  life  work  together  for  good. 


156        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

"May  it  be  so  with  me!"  was  Claude's  silent  prayer  that 
night. 

When  their  guests  were  gone,  Charmian  sat  down  on  a  very 
low  chair  before  the  wood  fire — sheinsisted  on  wood  instead  of 
coal — in  the  first  drawing-room. 

"Don't  let  us  go  to  bed  for  a  few  minutes  yet,  Claude," 
she  said.  "You  aren't  sleepy,  are  you?" 

"Not  a  bit." 

He  sat  down  on  the  chintz-covered  sofa  near  her. 

"It  went  off  well,  didn't  it?" 

She  was  looking  into  the  fire.  Her  narrow,  long-fingered 
hands  were  clasped  round  her  knees.  She  wore  a  pale  yellow 
dress,  and  there  was  a  yellow  band  in  her  dark  hair,  which 
was  arranged  in  such  a  way  that  it  looked,  Claude  thought, 
like  a  careless  cloud,  and  which  gave  to  her  face  a  sort  of 
picturesquely  tragic  appearance. 

"Yes,  I  think  it  did." 

"They  all  liked  you." 

"I'm  glad!" 

"You  make  an  excellent  host,  Claudie;  you  are  so  ready, 
so  sympathetic!  You  listen  so  well,  and  look  as  if  you  really 
cared,  whether  you  do  or  not.  It's  such  a  help  to  a  man  in  his 
career  to  have  a  manner  like  yours.  But  I  remember  noticing 
it  the  first  time  I  ever  met  you  in  Max  Elliot's  music-room. 
What  a  shame  of  Adelaide  Shiffney  not  to  come!" 

Her  voice  had  suddenly  changed. 

"Did  you  want  Mrs.  Shiffney  to  come  so  particularly?" 
Claude  asked,  not  without  surprise. 

"Yes,  I  did.  Not  for  myself,  of  course.  I  don't  pretend 
to  be  fond  of  her,  though  I  don't  dislike  her!  But  she  ought 
to  have  come  after  accepting.  People  thought  she  was  coming 
to-night.  I  wonder  why  she  rushed  off  to  Paris  like  that?" 

"I  should  think  it  was  probably  something  to  do  with 
the  Senniers.  Max  Elliot  told  me  just  now  that  she  lives  and 
breathes  Sennier." 

Claude  spoke  with  a  quiet  humor,  and  quite  without  anger. 

"Max  does  exactly  the  same,"  said  Charmian.  "It  really 
becomes  rather  silly — in  a  man." 

"But  Sennier  is  worth  it.     Nothing  spurious  about  him." 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        157 

"I  never  said  there  was.  But  still — Margot  is  rather 
tiresome,  too,  with  her  rages  first  for  this  person  and  then  for 
the  other." 

"Who  is  it  now?" 

"Oh,  she's  Sennier-mad  like  the  others." 

"Still?" 

"Yes,  after  all  these  months.  She's  actually  going  over 
to  America,  I  believe,  just  to  hear  the  Paradis  once  at  the 
Metropolitan.  Five  days  out,  five  back,  and  one  night  there. 
Isn't  it  absurd?  She's  had  it  put  in  the  Daily  Mail.  And 
then  she  says  she  can't  think  how  things  about  her  get  into  the 
papers!  Margot  really  is  rather  a  humbug!" 

"  Still,  she  admires  the  right  thing  when  she  admires  Sennier's 
talent,"  said  Claude,  with  a  sort  of  still  decision. 

Charmian  turned  her  eyes  away  from  the  fire  and  looked  at 
him. 

"How  odd  you  are!"  she  said,  after  a  little  pause. 

"  Why?    In  what  way  am  I  odd?" 

"In  almost  every  way,  I  think.  But  it's  all  right.  You 
ought  to  be  odd." 

"What  do  you  mean,  Charmian?" 

"Jacques  Sennier's  odd,  extraordinary.  People  like  that 
always  are.  You  are." 

She  was  examining  him  contemplatively,  as  a  woman 
examines  a  possession,  something  that  the  other  women  have 
not.  Her  look  made  him  feel  very  restive  and  intensely 
reserved. 

"I  doubt  if  I  am  the  least  like  Jacques  Sennier,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  yes,  you  are.     I  know." 

His  rather  thin  and  very  mobile  lips  tightened,  as  if  to  keep 
back  a  rush  of  words. 

"You  don't  know  yourself,"  Charmian  continued,  still 
looking  at  him  with  those  contemplative  and  possessive  eyes. 
"  Men  don't  notice  what  is  part  of  themselves." 

"Do  women?" 

"What  does  it  matter?  I  am  thinking  about  you,  about 
my  man." 

There  was  a  long  pause,  which  Claude  filled  by  getting  up 
and  lighting  a  cigarette.  A  hideous,  undressed  sensation 


158        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

possessed  him,  the  undressed  sensation  of  the  reserved  nature 
that  is  being  stared  at.  He  said  to  himself:  "It  is  natural 
that  she  should  look  at  me  like  this,  speak  to  me  like  this.  It 
is  perfectly  natural."  But  he  haled  it.  He  even  felt  as  if 
he  could  not  endure  it  much  longer,  and  would  be  obliged  to  do 
something  to  stop  it. 

"Don't  sit  down  again,"  said  Charmian,  as  he  turned  with 
the  cigarette  in  his  mouth. 

She  got  up  with  lithe  ease,  like  one  uncurling. 

"Let's  go  and  look  at  your  room,  where  you're  going  to 
begin  work  to-morrow." 

She  put  her  hand  on  his  arm.  And  her  hand  was  possessive 
as  her  eyes  had  been. 

Claude's  workroom  was  at  the  back  of  the  house  on  the 
floor  above  the  drawing-room.  An  upright  piano  replaced 
the  grand  piano  of  Mullion  House,  now  dedicated  to  the  draw- 
ing-room. There  was  a  large  flat  writing-table  in  front  of  the 
window,  where  curtains  of  Irish  frieze,  dark  green  in  color, 
hung  shutting  out  the  night  and  the  ugliness  at  the  back  of 
Kensington  Square.  The  walls  were  nearly  covered  with 
books.  At  the  bottom  of  the  bookcases  were  large  drawers 
for  music.  A  Canterbury  held  more  music,  and  was  placed 
beside  the  writing-table.  The  carpet  was  dark  green  without 
any  pattern.  In  the  fireplace  were  some  curious  Morris  tiles, 
representing  ^Eneas  carrying  Anchises,  with  Troy  burning  in 
the  background.  There  were  two  armchairs,  and  a  deep 
sofa  covered  in  dark  green.  A  photograph  of  Charmian 
stood  on  the  writing-table.  It  showed  her  in  evening  dress, 
holding  her  Conder  fan,  and  looking  out  with  half-shut  eyes. 
There  was  in  it  a  hint  of  the  assumed  dreaminess  which  very 
sharp-witted  modern  maidens  think  decorative  in  photographs, 
the  "I  follow  an  ideal"  expression,  which  makes  men  say, 
"What  a  charming  girl!  Looks  as  if  she'd  got  something  in 
her,  too!" 

"It's  a  dear  little  room,  isn't  it,  Claude?"  said  Charmian. 

"Yes,  very." 

"You  really  like  it,  don't  you?  You  like  its  atmos- 
phere?" 

"I  think  you've  done  it  delightfully.     I  was  saying  to 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        159 

Madre  only  this  evening  how  extraordinarily  clever  you  are 
in  creating  prettiness  around  you." 

"Were  you?    How  nice  of  you." 

She  laid  her  cheek  against  his  shoulder. 

"You'll  be  able  to  work  here?" 

"Why  not?" 

"Let's  shut  the  door,  and  just  feel  the  room  for  a  minute." 

"All  right." 

He  shut  the  door. 

"Don't  let  us  speak  for  a  moment,"  she  whispered. 

She  was  sitting  now  on  the  deep  sofa  just  beyond  the  writing- 
table.  Claude  stood  quite  still.  And  in  the  silence  which 
followed  her  words  he  strove  to  realize  whether  he  would  be 
able  to  work  in  the  little  room.  Would  anything  come  to  him 
here?  His  eyes  rested  on  Anchises,  crouched  on  the  back  of 
his  son,  on  the  burning  city  of  Troy.  He  felt  confused,  strange, 
and  then  depayse.  That  word  alone  meant  what  he  felt  just 
then.  Ah,  the  little  house  with  the  one  big  room  looking  out 
on  to  the  scrap  of  garden,  yellow-haired  Fan,  Harriet  discreet 
unto  dumbness,  Mrs.  Searle  with  her  scraps  of  wisdom — he 
with  his  freedom! 

The  room  was  a  cage,  wire  bars  everywhere.  Never  could 
he  work  in  it! 

"It  is  good  for  work,  isn't  it,  Claudie?  Even  poor  little 
I  can  feel  that.  What  wonderful  things  you  are  going  to  do 
here.  As  wonderful  as — "  She  checked  herself  abruptly. 

"As  what?"  he  asked,  striving  to  force  an  interest,  to 
banish  his  secret  desperation. 

"I  won't  tell  you  now.  Some  day — in  a  year,  two  years — 
I'll  tell  you." 

Her  eyes  shone.     He  thought  they  looked  almost  greedy. 

"When  my  man's  done  something  wonderful!" 


CHAPTER  XV 

IN  Charmian's  conception  of  the  perfect  helpmate  for  a  great 
man  self-sacrifice  shone  out  as  the  first  of  the  virtues.  She 
must  sacrifice  herself  to  Claude,  must  regulate  her  life  so 
that  his  might  glide  smoothly,  without  any  friction,  to  the  ap- 
pointed goal.  She  must  be  patient,  understanding,  and  unself- 
ish. But  she  must  also  be  firm  at  the  right  moment,  be 
strong  in  judgment,  be  judicious,  the  perfect  critic  as  well  as 
the  ardent  admirer.  During  her  life  among  clever  and  well- 
known  men  she  had  noticed  how  the  mere  fact  of  marriage 
often  seems  to  make  a  man  think  highly  of  the  intellect  of  his 
chosen  woman.  Again  and  again  she  had  heard  some  distin- 
guished writer  or  politician,  wedded  to  somebody  either  quite 
ordinary,  or  even  actually  stupid,  say:  "I'd  take  my  wife's 
judgment  before  anyone's,"  or  "My  wife  sees  more  clearly  for 
a  man  than  anyone  I  know."  She  had  known  painters  and 
sculptors  submit  their  works  to  the  criticism  of  women  totally 
ignorant  in  the  arts,  simply  because  those  women  had  had 
the  faultless  taste  to  marry  them.  If  such  women  exercised 
so  strong  an  influence  over  their  men,  what  should  hers  be 
over  Claude?  For  she  had  been  well  educated,  was  trained 
in  music,  had  always  moved  in  intellectual  and  artistic  sets, 
and  was  certainly  not  stupid.  Indeed,  now  that  the  main 
stream  of  her  life  was  divided  from  her  mother's,  she  often 
felt  as  if  she  were  decidedly  clever.  Susan  Fleet,  long  ago, 
had  roused  up  her  will.  Since  that  day  she  had  never  let  it 
sleep.  And  her  success  in  marrying  Claude  had  made  her 
rely  on  her  will,  rely  on  herself.  She  was  a  girl  who  could 
"carry  things  through,"  a  girl  who  could  make  of  life  a  suc- 
cess. As  a  young  married  woman  she  showed  more  of  assur- 
ance than  she  had  showed  as  an  unmarried  girl.  There  was 
more  of  decision  in  her  expression  and  her  way  of  being. 
She  was  resolved  to  impress  the  world,  of  course  for  her 
husband's  sake. 

Life  in  the  house  in  Kensington  had  to  be  arranged  for 

160 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        161 

Claude  with  every  elaborate  precaution.  That  must  be  the 
first  move  in  the  campaign  secretly  planned  out  by  Charmian, 
and  now  about  to  be  carried  through. 

On  the  morning  after  the  house-warming,  when  a  late  break- 
fast was  finished,  but  while  they  were  still  at  the  breakfast- 
table  in  the  long  and  narrow  dining-room,  which  looked  out  on 
the  quiet  square,  Charmian  said  to  her  husband: 

"I've  been  speaking  to  the  servants,  Claude.  I've  told 
them  about  being  very  quiet  to-day." 

He  pushed  his  tea-cup  a  little  away  from  him. 

"Why?"  he  asked.     "I  mean  why  specially  to-day?" 

"Because  of  your  composing.  Alice  is  a  good  girl,  but 
she  is  a  little  inclined  to  be  noisy  sometimes.  I've  spoken  to 
her  seriously  about  it." 

Alice  was  the  parlor-maid.  Charmian  would  have  pre- 
ferred to  have  a  man  to  answer  the  door,  but  she  had  sacrificed 
to  economy,  or  thought  she  had  done  so,  by  engaging  a 
woman.  As  Claude  said  nothing,  Charmian  continued: 

"And  another  thing!  I've  told  them  all  that  you're  never 
to  be  disturbed  when  you're  in  your  own  room,  that  they're 
never  to  come  to  you  with  notes,  or  the  post,  never  to  call  you 
to  the  telephone.  I  want  you  to  feel  that  once  you  are  inside 
your  own  room  you  are  absolutely  safe,  that  it  is  sacred 
ground." 

"Thank  you,  Charmian." 

He  pushed  his  cup  farther  away,  with  a  movement  that  was 
rather  brusque,  and  got  up. 

"What  about  lunch  to-day?  Do  you  eat  lunch  when  you 
are  composing?  Do  you  want  something  sent  up  to  you?" 

"Well,  I  don't  know.  I  don't  think  I  shall  want  any  lunch 
to-day.  You  see  we've  breakfasted  late.  Don't  bother  about 
me."" 

"It  isn't  a  bother.  You  know  that,  Claudie.  But  would 
you  like  a  cup  of  coffee,  tea,  anything  at  one  o'clock?" 

"Oh,  I  scarcely  know.    I'll  ring  if  I  do." 

He  made  a  movement.    Charmian  got  up. 

"I  do  long  to  know  what  you  are  going  to  work  on,"  she 
said,  in  a  changed,  almost  mysterious,  voice,  which  was  not 
consciously  assumed. 


162        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

She  came  up  to  him  and  put  her  hands  on  his  shoulders. 

"Ever  since  I  first  heard  your  music — you  remember,  two 
days  after  we  were  engaged — I've  longed  to  be  able  to  do  a  little 
something  to  help  you  on.  You  know  what  I  mean.  In  the 
woman's  way,  by  acting  as  a  sort  of  buffer  between  you  and  all 
the  small  irritations  of  life.  We  who  can't  create  can  some- 
times be  of  use  to  those  who  can.  We  can  keep  others  from 
disturbing  the  mystery.  Let  me  do  that.  And,  in  return, 
let  me  be  in  the  secret,  won't  you?" 

Claude  stood  rather  stiffly  under  her  hands. 

"You  are  kind,  good.  But — but  don't  make  any  bother 
about  me  in  the  house.  I'd  rather  you  didn't.  Let  every- 
thing just  go  on  naturally.  I  don't  want  to  be  a  nuisance." 

"You  couldn't  be.    And  you  will  let  me?" 

"Perhaps — when  I  know  it  myself." 

He  made  a  little  rather  constrained  laugh. 

"One's  got  to  think,  try.  One  doesn't  always  know  directly 
what  one  wishes  to  do,  can  do." 

"No,  of  course  not." 

She  took  away  her  hands  gently. 

"  Now  I  don't  exist  till  you  want  me  to  again." 

Claude  went  up  to  the  little  room  at  the  back  of  the  house. 
At  this  moment  he  would  gladly,  thankfully,  have  gone  any- 
where else.  But  he  felt  that  he  was  expected  to  go  there. 
Five  women,  his  wife  and  the  four  maids,  expected  him  to 
go  there.  So  he  went.  He  shut  himself  in,  and  remained 
there,  caged. 

It  was  a  still  and  foggy  day  of  frost.  In  the  air,  even 
within  the  house,  there  was  a  feeling  of  snow,  light,  thin,  and 
penetrating.  London  seemed  peculiarly  silent.  And  the 
silence  seemed  to  have  something  to  do  with  the  fog,  the  frost, 
and  the  coming  snow.  When  the  door  of  his  room  was  shut 
Claude  stood  by  his  table,  then  before  the  fire,  feeling  curi- 
ously empty  headed,  almost  light  headed.  He  stared  at  the 
fire,  listened  to  its  faint  crackling,  and  felt  as  if  his  life  were  a 
hollow  shell. 

Probably  he  had  stood  thus  for  a  considerable  time — he 
did  not  kr  ow  whether  for  five  minutes  or  an  hour — when  he 
was  made  self-conscious  by  an  event  in  the  house.  He  heard 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        163 

two  women's  voices  in  conversation,  apparently  on  the  stair- 
case. 

One  of  them  said: 

"The  duster,  I  tell  you!" 

The  other  replied: 

"  Well,  I  didn't  leave  it.     Ask  Fanny,  can't  you!" 

"  Fanny  doesn't  know." 

"She  ought  to  know,  then!" 

"Ought  yourself!  Fanny's  no  business  with  the  duster  no 
more  than — " 

At  this  point  a  third  voice  intervened  in  the  dialogue.  It 
was  Charmian's,  reduced  to  a  sort  of  intense  whisper.  It  said: 

"Alice!  Alice!  I  specially  told  you  not  to  make  a  sound 
in  the  house.  Your  master  is  at  work.  The  least  noise  dis- 
turbs him.  Pray  be  quiet.  If  you  must  speak,  go  down- 
stairs." 

There  was  silence,  then  the  sound  of  rustling,  of  a  door 
shutting,  then  again  silence. 

Claude  came  away  from  the  fire. 

"Your  master  is  at  work." 

He  dashed  down  his  hands  on  the  big  writing-table,  with 
a  gesture  almost  of  despair.  Self-consciousness  now  was  like 
an  iron  band  about  him,  the  devilish  thing  that  constricts  a 
talent.  The  hideous  knowledge  that  he  was  surrounded  by 
women,  intent  on  him  and  what  he  was  supposed  to  be  doing, 
benumbed  his  intellect.  He  imagined  the  cook  in  the  kitchen 
discussing  his  talent  with  a  rolling-pin  in  her  hand,  Charmian's 
maid  musing  over  his  oddities,  with  a  mouth  full  of  pins,  and 
patterns  on  her  lap.  And  he  ground  his  teeth. 

"I  can't — I  can't — I  never  shall  be  able  to!" 

He  leaned  his  elbows  on  the  writing-table  and  put  his 
head  in  his  hands.  When  he  looked  up,  after  some  minutes, 
he  met  Charmian's  half-closed,  photographed  eyes. 

Between  twelve  and  one  o'clock  the  noise  of  a  piano  organ 
playing  vigorously,  almost  angrily,  "You  are  Queen  of  my 
heart  to-night,"  came  up  to  him  from  the  square,  softened, 
yet  scarcely  ameliorated,  by  distance  and  intervening  walls. 
With  bold  impertinence  it  began,  continued  for  perhaps  three 
minutes,  then  abruptly  ceased  in  the  middle  of  a  phrase. 


164        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

Claude  knew  why.  One  of  the  four  maids,  incited  thereto 
by  Charmian,  had  rushed  out  to  control  the  swarthy  Italian 
who  was  earning  his  living  in  the  land  without  light. 

The  master  was  working. 

But  the  master  was  not  working. 

Day  followed  day,  and  Claude  kept  his  secret,  the  secret 
that  he  was  doing,  could  do,  nothing  in  the  room  arranged  by 
Charmian,  in  the  atmosphere  created  by  Charmian. 

One  thing  specially  troubled  him. 

So  long  as  he  had  lived  alone  he  had  never  felt  as  if  his  art, 
or  perhaps  rather  his  method  of  giving  himself  to  it,  had  any 
trait  of  effeminacy.  It  had  seemed  quite  natural  to  him  to 
be  shut  up  in  his  own  "diggings,"  isolated,  with  only  a  couple 
of  devoted  servants,  and  golden-haired  Fan  in  the  distance, 
being  as  natural  as  he  was.  It  had  never  occurred  to  him  that 
his  life  was  specially  odd. 

But  now  he  often  did  feel  as  if  there  were  something  effemin- 
ate in  the  young  composer  at  home,  perpetually  in  the  house, 
with  his  wife  and  a  lot  of  women.  The  smallness  of  the 
house,  of  his  workroon,  emphasized  this  feeling.  Although 
an  almost  dreadful  silence  was  preserved  whenever  he  was 
supposed  to  be  working  his  very  soul  seemed  to  hear  the  per- 
petual rustle  of  skirts.  The  fact  that  five  women  were  keep- 
ing quiet  on  his  account  made  him  feel  as  if  he  were  an  effem- 
inate fool,  feel  that  if  his  art  was  a  thing  unworthy  of  a  man's 
devotion,  that  in  following  it,  in  sacrificing  to  it,  he  was  doing 
himself  harm,  was  undermining  his  own  masculinity. 

This  sensation  grew  in  him.  He  envied  the  men  whose 
work  took  them  from  home.  He  longed,  after  breakfast,  to 
put  on  hat  and  coat  and  sally  out.  He  thought  of  the  text, 
"Man  goeth  forth  to  his  work  and  to  his  labor  until  the 
evening."  If  only  he  could  go  forth!  If  only  he  could  for- 
get the  existence  of  his  intent  wife,  of  those  four  hushed  and 
wondering  maids  every  day  for  six  or  eight  hours.  He  fell 
into  deep  despondencies,  sometimes  into  silent  rages  which 
seemed  to  eat  into  his  heart. 

During  this  time  Charmian  was  beginning  to  "put  out 
feelers."  Her  work  for  Claude,  that  is,  her  work  outside  the 
little  house  in  Kensington  Square,  was  to  be  social.  Women 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        165 

can  do  very  much  in  the  social  way.  And  she  knew  herself 
well  equipped  for  the  task  in  hand.  Her  heart  was  in  it,  too. 
She  felt  sure  of  that.  Even  to  herself  she  never  used  the 
words  "  worldly  ambition."  The  task  was  a  noble  one,  to 
make  the  career  of  the  man  she  believed  in  and  loved  glorious, 
to  bring  him  to  renown.  While  he  was  shut  up,  working  in 
the  little  room  she  had  made  so  cozy,  so  "atmospheric,"  she 
would  be  at  work  for  him  in  the  world  they  were  destined  to 
conquer. 

All  the  "set"  had  come  to  call  in  Kensington  Square. 
Most  of  them  were  surprised  at  the  match.  They  recognized 
the  wordly  instinct  in  Charmian,  which  many  of  them  shared, 
and  could  not  quite  understand  why  she  had  chosen  Claude 
Heath  as  her  husband.  They  had  not  heard  much  of  him. 
He  never  went  anywhere,  was  personally  unknown  to  them. 
It  seemed  rather  odd.  They  had  scarcely  thought  Charmian 
Mansfield  would  make  that  kind  of  marriage.  Of  course  he 
was  a  thorough  gentleman,  and  a  man  with  pleasant,  even 
swiftly  attractive  manners.  But  still — !  The  general  verdict 
was  that  Charmian  must  have  fallen  violently  in  love  with  the 
man. 

She  felt  the  feelings  of  the  "set."  And  she  felt  that  she 
must  justify  her  choice  as  soon  as  possible.  To  the  set  Claude 
Heath  was  simply  a  nobody.  Charmian  meant  to  turn  him 
into  a  somebody. 

This  turning  of  Claude  into  a  somebody  was  to  be  the  first 
really  important  step  in  her  campaign  on  his  behalf.  It 
must  be  done  subtly,  delicately,  but  it  must  be  done  swiftly. 
She  was  secretly  impatient  to  justify  her  choice. 

She  had  at  first  relied  on  Max  Elliot  to  help  her.  He  was 
an  enthusiastic  man  and  had  influence.  Unluckily  she  soon 
found  that  for  the  moment  he  was  so  busy  adoring  Jacques 
Sennier  that  he  had  no  time  to  beat  the  big  drum  for  another. 
Sennier  had  carried  him  off  his  feet,  and  Madame  Sennier  had 
"got  hold  of  him."  The  last  phrase  was  Charmian's.  It 
was  speedily  evident  to  her  that,  womanlike,  the  French- 
woman was  not  satisfied  with  the  fact  of  her  husband's  im- 
mense success.  She  was  determined  that  no  rival  should 
spring  up  to  divide  adorers  into  camps.  No  doubt  she  argued 


166        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

that  there  is  in  the  musical  world  only  a  limited  number  of  dis- 
criminating enthusiasts,  capable  of  forming  and  fostering 
public  opinion,  of  "giving  a  lead"  to  the  critics,  and  through 
them  to  the  world.  She  wanted  them  all  for  her  husband. 
And  their  allegiance  must  be  undivided.  Although  she  was 
in  New  York,  she  had  Max  Elliot  "in  her  pocket"  in  London. 
It  was  a  feat  which  won  Charmian's  respect,  but  which  irri- 
tated her  extremely.  Max  Elliot  was  charming,  of  course, 
when  she  spoke  of  her  husband's  talent.  But  she  saw  at  once 
that  he  was  concentrated  on  Sennier.  She  felt  at  once  that 
he  did  not  at  the  moment  want  to  "go  mad"  over  any  other 
composer.  If  Claude  had  been  a  singer,  a  pianist,  or  a  fiddler, 
things  would  have  been  different.  Max  Elliot  had  taken 
charge  of  the  Frenchman's  financial  affairs,  solely  out  of 
friendship,  and  was  investing  the  American  and  other  gains 
in  various  admirable  enterprises.  Madame  Sennier,  who 
really  was,  as  Paul  Lane  had  said,  an  extraordinary  woman, 
had  a  keen  eye  to  the  main  chance.  She  acted  as  a  sort  of 
agent  to  her  husband,  and  was  reported  on  all  hands  to  be 
capable  of  driving  a  very  hard  bargain.  She  and  Max  Elliot 
were  perpetually  cabling  to  each  other  across  the  Atlantic, 
and  Max  was  seriously  thinking  of  imitating  Margot  Drake 
and  "running  over"  to  New  York  on  the  Lusitania.  Only 
his  business  in  London  detained  him.  He  spoke  of  Sennier 
invariably  as  "Jacques,"  of  Madame  Sennier  as  "Henriette." 
Living  English  composers  scarcely  existed  any  more  in  his 
sight.  France  was  the  country  of  music.  Only  from  France 
could  one  expect  anything  of  real  value  to  the  truly  cul- 
tured. 

Charmian  began  to  hate  this  absurd  entente  cordiale. 

Another  person  on  whom  she  had  secretly  set  high  hopes 
was  Adelaide  Shiffney.  It  was  for  this  reason  that  she  had 
been  irritated  at  Mrs.  Shiffney's  defection  on  the  night  of  the 
house-warming.  Now  that  she  was  married  to  a  composer 
Charmian  understood  the  full  value  of  Mrs.  Shiffney's  influence 
in  the  fashionable  world.  She  must  get  Adelaide  on  their 
side.  But  here  again  Sennier  stood  in  her  path.  Mrs.  Shiffney 
was,  musically  speaking  of  course,  in  love  with  Jacques  Sennier. 
Since  Wagner  there  had  been  nobody  to  play  upon  feminine 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        167 

nerves  as  the  little  Frenchman  played,  to  take  women  "out 
of  themselves."  As  a  well-known  society  woman  said,  with 
almost  pathetic  frankness,  "When  one  hears  Sennier's  music 
one  wants  to  hold  hands  with  somebody."  Apparently  Mrs. 
Shiffney  wanted  to  hold  hands  with  the  composer  himself. 
She  had  "no  use"  at  the  moment  for  anyone  else,  and  had 
already  arranged  to  take  the  Senniers  on  a  yachting  cruise 
after  the  London  season,  beginning  with  Cowes. 

The  "feelers"  which  Charmian  put  out  found  the  atmo- 
sphere rather  chilly. 

But  she  remembered  what  battles  with  the  world  most 
of  its  great  men  have  had  to  fight,  how  many  wives  of  great 
men  have  had  to  keep  the  flame  alive  in  gross  darkness.  She 
was  not  daunted.  But  she  presently  began  to  feel  that, 
without  being  frank  with  Claude,  she  must  try  to  get  a  certain 
amount  of  active  help  from  him.  She  had  intended  by 
judicious  talk  to  create  the  impression  that  Claude  was  an 
extraordinary  man,  on  the  way  to  accomplish  great  things. 
She  believed  this  thoroughly  herself.  But  she  now  realized 
that,  owing  to  the  absurd  Sennier  "boom,"  unless  she  could 
get  Claude  to  show  publicly  something  of  his  talent  nobody 
would  pay  any  attention  to  what  she  said. 

"What  is  he  doing?"  people  asked,  when  she  spoke  about 
his  long  hours  of  work,  about  the  precautions  she  had  to  take 
lest  he  should  be  disturbed.  She  answered  evasively.  The 
truth  was  that  she  did  not  know  what  Claude  was  doing. 
What  he  had  done,  or  some  of  it,  she  did  know.  She  had 
heard  his  Te  Deum,  and  some  of  his  strange  settings  of  words 
from  the  scriptures.  But  her  clever  worldly  instinct  told 
her  that  this  was  not  the  time  when  her  set  would  be  likely 
to  appreciate  things  of  that  kind.  The  whole  trend  of  the 
taste  she  cared  about  was  setting  in  the  direction  of  opera. 
And  whenever  she  tried  to  find  out  from  Claude  what  he  was 
composing  in  Kensington  Square  she  was  met  with  evasive 
answers. 

One  afternoon  she  came  home  from  a  party  at  the  Drakes' 
house  in  Park  Lane  determined  to  enlist  Claude's  aid  at  once 
in  her  enterprise,  without  telling  him  what  was  in  her  heart. 
And  first  she  must  find  out  definitely  what  sort  of  composition 


168       THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

he  was  working  on  at  the  present  moment.  In  Park  Lane 
nothing  had  been  heard  of  but  Sennier  and  Madame  Sennier. 
Margot  had  returned  from  America  more  enthusiastic,  more 
engouee  than  ever. 

She  had  been  as  straw  to  the  flame  of  American  enthu- 
siasm. All  her  individuality  seemed  to  have  been  burnt  out 
of  her.  She  was  at  present  only  a  sort  of  receptacle  for 
Sennier-mania.  In  dress,  hair,  manner,  and  even  gesture, 
she  strove  to  reproduce  Madame  Sennier.  For  one  of  the 
most  curious  features  of  Sennier's  vogue  was  the  worship 
accorded  by  women  as  well  as  by  men  to  his  dominating  wife. 
They  talked  and  thought  almost  as  much  about  her  as  they 
did  about  him.  And  though  his  was  the  might  of  genius, 
hers  seemed  to  be  the  might  of  personality.  The  perpetual 
chanting  of  the  Frenchwoman's  praises  had  "got  upon" 
Charmian's  nerves.  She  felt  this  afternoon  as  if  she  could 
not  bear  it  much  longer,  unless  some  outlet  was  provided  for 
her  secret  desires.  And  she  arrived  at  Kensington  Square 
in  a  condition  of  suppressed  nervous  excitement. 

She  paid  the  driver  of  the  taxi-cab  and  rang  the  bell.  She 
had  forgotten  to  take  her  key.  Alice  answered  the  door. 

"Is  Mr.  Heath  in?"  asked  Charmian. 

"He's  been  playing  golf,  ma'am.  But  he's  just  come  in," 
answered  Alice,  a  plump,  soft-looking  girl,  with  rather  sulky 
blue  eyes. 

"Oh,  of  course!    It's  Saturday." 

On  Saturday  Claude  generally  took  a  half-holiday,  and 
went  down  to  Richmond  to  play  golf  with  a  friend  of  his  who 
lived  there,  an  old  Cornish  chum  called  Tregorwan. 

"Where  is  Mr.  Heath?"  continued  Charmian,  standing 
in  the  little  hall. 

"Having  his  tea  in  the  drawing-room,  ma'am." 

"Oh!" 

She  took  off  her  fur  coat  and  went  quickly  upstairs.  She 
did  not  care  about  golf,  and  to-day  the  mere  sound  of  the 
name  irritated  her.  Englishmen  were  always  playing  golf, 
she  said  to  herself.  Jacques  Sennier  did  not  waste  his  time 
on  such  things,  she  was  sure.  Then  she  remembered  for  how 
many  hours  every  day  Claude  was  shut  up  in  his  little  room, 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        169 

how  he  always  went  there  immediately  after  breakfast.  And 
she  realized  the  injustice  of  her  dawning  anger,  and  also  her 
nervous  state,  and  resolved  to  be  very  gentle  and  calm  with 
Claude. 

It  was  a  cold  day  at  the  end  of  March.  She  found  him 
sitting  near  the  wood  fire  in  knickerbockers  and  a  Norfolk 
jacket,  with  thick,  heavily  nailed  boots,  covered  with  dried 
mud,  on  his  feet,  and  thick  brown  and  red  stockings  on  his 
legs.  It  was  almost  impossible  to  believe  he  was  a  musician. 
His  hair  had  been  freshly  cut,  but  he  had  not  "watered"  it. 
Since  his  marriage  Charmian  had  never  allowed  him  to  do  that. 
He  jumped  up  when  he  saw  his  wife.  Intimacy  never  made 
Claude  relax  in  courtesy. 

"I'm  having  tea  very  late,"  he  said.  "But  I've  only 
just  got  in." 

"I  know.  Sit  down  and  go  on,  dear  old  boy.  I'll  come 
and  sit  with  you.  Don't  you  want  more  light?" 

"I  like  the  firelight." 

He  sat  down  again  and  lifted  the  teapot. 

"I  shall  spoil  my  dinner.     But  never  mind." 

"You  remember  we're  dining  with  Madre!" 

"Oh— to  be  sure!" 

"  But  not  till  half-past  eight." 

She  sat  down  with  her  back  to  the  drawn  window  curtains 
at  right  angles  to  Claude.  Alice  had  "shut  up"  early  to 
make  the  drawing-room  look  cozy  for  Claude.  The  firelight 
played  about  the  room,  illuminating  now  one  thing,  now 
another,  making  Claude's  face  and  head,  sometimes  his 
musical  hands  look  Rembrandtesque,  powerful,  imaginative, 
even  mysterious.  Now  that  Charmian  had  sat  down  she 
lost  her  impression  of  the  eternal  golfer,  received  another 
impression  which  spurred  her  imagination. 

"I've  been  at  the  Drakes,"  she  began.  "Only  a  very 
few  to  welcome  Margot  back  from  New  York." 

"Did  she  enjoy  her  visit?" 

"Immensely.  She's — as  she  calls  it — tickled  to  death 
with  the  Americans  in  their  own  country.  She  meant  to  stay 
only  one  night,  but  she  was  there  three  weeks.  It  seems 
all  New  York  has  gone  mad  over  Jacques  Sennier." 


170        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

"I'm  glad  they  see  how  really  fine  his  opera  is,"  Claude 
said,  seriously,  even  earnestly. 

"Margot  says  when  the  Americans  like  anything  they  are 
the  most  enthusiastic  nation  in  the  world." 

"If  it  is  so  it's  a  fine  trait  in  the  national  character,  I 
think." 

How  impersonal  he  sounded.  She  longed  for  the  creeping 
music  of  jealousy  in  his  voice.  If  only  Claude  would  be 
jealous  of  Sennier! 

She  spoke  lightly  of  other  things,  and  presently  said: 

"How  is  the  work  getting  on?" 

There  was  a  slight  pause.    Then  Claude  said: 

"The  work?" 

"Yes,  yours." 

She  hesitated.  There  was  something  in  her  husband's 
personality  that  sometimes  lay  upon  her  like  an  embargo. 
She  was  conscious  of  this  embargo  now.  But  her  nervous 
irritation  made  her  determined  to  defy  it. 

"Claudie,"  she  went  on,  "you  don't  know,  you  can't  know, 
how  much  I  care  for  your  work.  It's  part  of  you.  It  is  you. 
You  promised  me  once  you  would  let  me  be  in  the  secret. 
Don't  you  remember?" 

"Did  I?    When?" 

"The  day  after  our  party  when  you  were  going  to  begin 
work  again.  And  now  it's  nearly  two  months." 

She  stopped.  He  was  silent.  A  flame  burst  out  of  a  log 
in  the  grate  and  lit  up  strongly  one  half  of  his  face.  She 
thought  it  looked  stern,  almost  fierce,  and  very  foreign. 
Many  Cornish  people  have  Spanish  blood  in  them,  she  re- 
membered. That  foreign  look  made  her  feel  for  a  moment 
almost  as  if  she  were  sitting  with  a  stranger. 

"Nearly  two  months,"  she  repeated  in  a  more  tentative 
voice. 

"Is  it?" 

"Yes.    Don't  you  think  I've  been  very  patient?" 

"But,  surely — surely — why  should  you  want  to  know?" 

"I  do  want.  Your  work  is  your  life.  I  want  it  to  be 
mine,  too." 

"Oh,  it  could  never  be  that — the  work  of  another." 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        171 

"I  want  to  identify  myself  with  you." 

There  was  another  silence.  And  this  time  it  was  a  long 
one.  At  last  Claude  moved,  turned  round  to  face  Charmian 
fully,  and  said,  with  the  voice  of  one  making  a  strong,  almost 
a  desperate  effort: 

"You  wish  to  know  what  I've  been  working  on  during 
these  weeks  when  I've  been  in  my  room?" 

"Yes." 

"I  haven't  been  working  on  anything." 

"What?" 

"I  haven't  been  working  at  all." 

"Not  working!" 

"No." 

"But — you  must — but  we  were  all  so  quiet!  I  told 
Alice—" 

"  I  never  asked  you  to." 

"No,  but  of  course — but  what  have  you  been  doing  up 
there?" 

"Reading  Carlyle's  French  Revolution  most  of  the  time." 

"Carlyle!    You've  been  reading  Carlyle!" 

In  her  voice  there  was  a  sound  of  outrage.  Claude  got 
up  and  stood  by  the  fire. 

"It  isn't  my  fault,"  he  said.  "The  truth  is  I  can't  work 
in  that  room.  I  can't  work  in  this  house." 

"But  it's  our  home." 

"I  know,  but  I  can't  work  in  it.  Perhaps  it's  because  of 
the  maids,  knowing  they're  creeping  about,  wondering — I 
don't  know  what  it  is.  I've  tried,  but  I  can't  do  anything." 

"But — how  dreadful!    Nearly  two  months  wasted!" 

He  felt  that  she  was  condemning  him,  and  a  secret  anger 
surged  through  him.  His  reserve,  too,  was  suffering  torment. 

"I'm  sorry,  Charmian.     But  I  couldn't  help  it." 

"But  then,  why  did  you  go  up  and  shut  yourself  in  day 
after  day?" 

"  I  hoped  to  be  able  to  do  something." 

"But— 

"And  I  saw  you  expected  me  to  go." 

The  truth  was  out.  Claude  felt,  as  he  spoke  it,  as  if  he 
were  tearing  off  clothes.  How  he  loathed  that  weakness  of 


172       THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

his,  which  manifested  itself  in  the  sometimes  almost  uncon- 
trollable instinct  to  give,  or  to  try  to  give,  others  what  they 
expected  of  him. 

"Expected  you!    But  naturally^1- " 

"Yes,  I  know.  Well,  that's  how  it  is!  I  can't  work  in 
this  house." 

He  spoke  almost  roughly  now. 

"I  don't  want  to  assume  any  absurd  artistic  pose,"  he 
continued.  "I  hate  the  affectations  sometimes  supposed 
to  belong  to  my  profession.  But  it's  no  use  pretending  about 
a  thing  of  this  kind.  There  are  some  places,  some  atmos- 
pheres, if  you  like  to  use  the  word  generally  used,  that  help 
anyone  who  tries  to  create,  and  some  that  hinder.  It's  not 
only  a  matter  of  place,  I  suppose,  but  of  people.  This  house 
is  too  small,  or  something.  There  are  too  many  people  in  it. 
I  feel  that  they  are  all  bothering  and  wondering  about  me, 
treading  softly  for  me."  He  threw  out  his  hands.  "  I  don't 
know  what  it  is  exactly,  but  I'm  paralyzed  here.  I  suppose 
you  think  I'm  half  mad." 

To  his  great  surprise,  she  answered,  in  quite  a  different 
voice  from  the  voice  which  had  suggested  outrage: 

"No,  no;  great  artists  are  always  like  that.  They  are 
always  extraordinary." 

There  was  a  mysterious  pleasure,  almost  gratification,  in 
her  voice. 

"You  would  be  like  that.    I  should  have  known." 

"Oh,  as  to  that—" 

"I  understand,  Claudie.    You  needn't  say  any  more." 

Claude  turned  rather  brusquely  round  to  face  the  fire.  As 
he  said  nothing,  Charmian  continued: 

"What  is  to  be  done  now?    We  have  taken  this  house — " 

He  wheeled  round. 

"Of  course  we  shall  stay  in  this  house.  It  suits  us  admir- 
ably. Besides,  to  move  simply  because — " 

"Your  work  comes  before  all." 

He  compressed  his  lips.     He  began  to  hate  his  own  talent. 

"I  think  the  best  thing  to  do,"  he  said,  "would  be  for  me 
to  look  for  a  studio  somewhere.  I  could  easily  find  one,  put 
a  piano  and  a  few  chairs  in,  and  go  there  every  day  to  work. 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        173 

Lots  of  men  do  that  sort  of  thing.  It's  like  going  to  an 
office." 

"Capital!"  she  said.  "Then  you'll  be  quite  isolated, 
and  you'll  get  on  ever  so  fast.  Won't  you?" 

"I  think  probably  I  could  work." 

"And  you  will.  Before  we  married  you  worked  so  hard. 
I  want" — she  got  up,  came  to  him,  and  put  her  hand  in  his — 
"I  want  to  feel  that  marriage  has  helped  you,  not  hindered 
you,  in  your  career.  I  want  to  feel  that  I  urge  you  on,  don't 
hold  you  back." 

Claude  longed  to  tell  her  to  leave  him  alone.  But  he 
thought  of  coming  isolation  in  the  studio,  and  refrained. 
Bending  down,  he  kissed  her. 

"It  will  be  all  right,"  he  said,  "when  I've  got  a  place 
where  I  can  be  quite  alone  for  some  hours  each  day." 


CHAPTER  XVI 

WITH  an  energy  that  was  almost  feverish,  Charmian 
threw  herself  into  the  search  for  a  studio.  The  little 
room  had  been  a  failure,  through  no  fault  of  hers. 
She  must  make  a  success  of  the  studio.  She  and  Claude  set 
forth  together,  and  soon  bent  their  steps  toward  Chelsea. 
There  were  studios  to  be  had  in  Kensington,  of  course.  But 
Claude  happened  to  mention  Chelsea,  and  at  once  Charmian 
took  up  the  idea.  The  right  atmosphere — that  was  the  object 
of  this  new  quest,  the  end  and  aim  of  their  wanderings.  If  it 
were  to  be  found  in  Chelsea,  then  in  Chelsea  Claude  must  make 
his  daily  habitation.  Charmian  seconded  the  Chelsea  prop- 
osition with  an  enthusiasm  that  was  almost  a  little  anxious. 
Chelsea  was  so  picturesque,  so  near  the  river,  that  somber 
and  wonderful  heart  of  London.  Such  interesting  and  famous 
people  lived  in  Chelsea  now,  and  had  lived  there  in  the  past. 
She  wondered  they  had  not  decided  to  live  in  Chelsea  instead 
of  in  Kensington.  But  Claude  was  right,  unerring  in  his 
judgment.  Of  course  the  studio  must  be  in  Chelsea. 

One  was  found  not  far  from  Glebe  Place,  in  a  large  red 
building  with  an  arched  entrance,  handsome  steps,  and  several 
artistic-looking  windows,  with  leaded  panes  and  soda-water 
bottle  grass.  It  was  on  the  ground  floor,  but  it  was  quiet, 
large  but  not  enormous,  and  well-planned.  It  contained 
however,  one  unnecessary,  though  not  unattractive,  feature. 
At  one  end,  on  the  left  of  the  door,  there  was  a  platform 
reached  by  a  flight  of  steps,  and  screened  off  with  wood  from 
the  rest  of  the  room.  The  caretaker,  who  had  the  key  and 
showed  them  round,  explained  that  this  had  been  planned 
and  put  up  by  an  Austrian  painter,  who  used  the  chamber 
formed  by  the  platform  and  the  upper  part  of  the  screen  as  a 
bedroom,  and  the  space  below,  roofed  by  the  platform  as  a 
kitchen. 

The  rent  was  one  hundred  pounds  a  year. 

174 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        175 

This  seemed  too  much  to  Claude.  He  felt  ashamed  to 
spend  such  a  large  sum  on  what  must  seem  an  unnecessary 
caprice  to  the  average  person,  even  probably  to  people  who 
were  above  the  average.  If  he  were  known  as  a  composer, 
if  he  were  popular  or  famous,  the  matter,  he  felt,  would  be 
quite  different.  Everyone  understands  the  artistic  needs  of 
the  famous  man,  or  pretends  to  understand  them.  But 
Claude  and  his  work  were  entirely  unknown  to  fame.  And 
now,  as  he  hesitated  about  the  payment  of  this  hundred 
pounds,  he  regretted  this,  as  he  had  never  before  regretted  it. 

But  Charmian  was  strong  in  her  insistence  upon  his  having 
this  particular  studio.  She  saw  he  had  taken  a  fancy  to  it. 

"I  know  you  feel  there's  the  right  atmosphere  here,"  she 
said.  "  I  can  see  you  do.  It  would  be  fatal  not  to  take  this 
studio  if  you  have  that  feeling.  Never  mind  the  expense. 
We  shall  get  it  all  back  in  the  future." 

"Back  in  the  future!"  he  said,  as  if  startled.     "How?" 

She  saw  she  had  been  imprudent,  had  made  a  sort  of 
slip. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  Some  day  when  your  father — 
But  don't  let's  talk  of  that.  A  hundred  a  year  is  not  very 
much.  It  will  only  mean  not  quite  so  many  new  hats  and 
dresses  for  me." 

Claude  flushed,  suddenly  and  violently. 

* '  C  harmian !    You  can '  t  suppose — ' ' 

"Surely  a  wife  has  the  right  to  do  something  to  help  her 
husband?" 

"  But  I  don't  need — I  mean,  I  could  never  consent — " 

She  made  a  face  at  him,  drawing  down  her  brows,  and 
turning  her  eyes  to  the  left  where  the  caretaker  stood,  with  a 
bunch  of  keys  in  his  large,  gouty,  red  hands.  Claude  said 
no  more.  As  they  went  out  Charmian  smiled  at  the  care- 
taker. 
;  "  We  are  going  to  take  it.  My  husband  likes  it." 

"Yes,  ma'am.  It's  a  mighty  fine  studio.  The  Baron  was 
sorry  to  leave  it,  but  he  had  to  go  back  to  Vi-henner." 

"I  see." 

"  Now  the  next  thing  is  to  furnish  it,"  said  Charmian,  as 
they  walked  away. 


176        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

"I  shall  only  want  my  piano,  a  chair,  and  a  table,"  said 
Claude. 

It  was  only  by  making  a  very  great  effort  that  he  was 
able  to  speak  naturally,  with  any  simplicity. 

"Besides,"  he  added  quickly,  "it's  really  too  expensive. 
A  hundred  a  year  is  absurd." 

"If  it  were  two  hundred  a  year  it  wouldn't  be  a  penny  too 
much  if  you  really  like  it,  if  you  will  feel  happy  and  at  home 
in  it.  I'm  going  to  furnish  it  for  you,  quite  simply,  of  course. 
Just  rugs  and  a  divan  or  two,  and  a  screen  to  shut  out  the 
door,  two  or  three  pretty  comfortable  chairs,  some  draperies 
— only  thin  ones,  nothing  heavy  to  spoil  the  acoustics — a  few 
cushions,  a  table  or  two.  Oh,  and  you  must  have  a  spirit- 
lamp,  a  little  batterie  de  cuisine,  and  perhaps  a  tea-basket." 

"But,  my  dear  Charmian — " 

"Hush,  old  boy!  You  have  genius,  but  you  don't  under- 
stand these  things.  These  are  the  woman's  things.  I  shall 
love  getting  together  everything.  Surely  you  don't  want  to 
spoil  my  little  fun.  I've  made  a  failure  of  your  workroom 
in  Kensington.  Do  let  me  try  to  make  a  success  of  the 
studio." 

What  could  Claude  do  but  thank  her,  but  let  her  have  her 
way? 

The  studio  was  taken  for  three  years  and  furnished.  For 
days  Charmian  talked  and  thought  of  little  else.  She  was 
prompted,  carried  on,  by  two  desires — one,  that  Claude  should 
be  able  to  work  hard  as  soon  as  possible;  the  other,  that 
people  should  realize  what  an  energetic,  capable,  and  en- 
thusiastic woman  she  was.  The  Madame  Sennier  spirit 
attended  her  in  her  goings  out  and  her  comings  in,  armed  her 
with  energy,  with  gaiety,  with  patience. 

When  at  length  all  was  ready,  she  said: 

"Claude,  to-morrow  I  want  you  to  do  something  for 
me." 

"What  is  it?  Of  course  I  will  do  it.  You've  been  so 
good,  giving  up  everything  for  the  studio." 

Charmian  had  really  given  up  several  parties,  and  explained 
why  she  could  not  go  to  them  to  inquiring  hostesses  of  the 
"set." 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        177 

"I  want  you  to  let  us  pendre  la  cremaillere  to-morrow 
evening  all  alone,  just  you  and  I  together." 

"In  the  studio?" 

"Of  course." 

"Well,  but" — he  smiled,  then  laughed  rather  awkwardly — 
"but  what  could  we  do  there  all  alone?  What  is  there  to 
do?  And,  besides,  there's  that  party  at  Mrs.  Shiffney's  to- 
morrow night.  We  were  both  going  to  that." 

"  We  could  go  there  afterward  if  we  felt  inclined.  But — I 
don't  know  that  I  want  to  go  to  Adelaide  Shiffney  just  now." 

"But  why  not?" 

"Perhaps — only  perhaps,  remember — I'll  tell  you  to- 
morrow night  in  the  studio." 

She  assumed  in  the  last  words  that  the  matter  was  settled, 
and  Claude  raised  no  further  objection.  He  saw  she  was  set 
upon  the  carrying  out  of  her  plan.  There  was  will  in  her  long 
eyes.  He  could  not  help  fancying  that  either  she  had  some 
surprise  in  store  for  him,  or  that  she  meant  to  do,  or  say,  some- 
thing extremely  definite,  which  she  had  already  decided  upon 
in  her  mind,  to-morrow  in  the  studio. 

He  felt  slightly  uneasy. 

On  the  following  morning  Charmian  looked  distinctly 
mysterious,  and  rather  as  if  she  wished  Claude  to  notice  her 
mystery.  He  ignored  it,  however,  though  he  realized  that 
some  plan  must  be  maturing  in  her  head.  His  suspicion  of  the 
day  before  was  certainly  well  founded. 

"What  about  this  evening,  Charmian?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  we  are  going  to  pendre  la  cremaillere.  You  remember 
we  decided  yesterday." 

"Before  or  after  dinner?    And  what  about  Mrs.  Shiffney?" 

"Well,  I  thought  we  might  go  to  the  studio  about  half- 
past  seven  or  eight.  Could  you  meet  me  there — say  at  half- 
past  seven?" 

"Meet  you?" 

"Yes;  I've  got  to  go  out  in  that  direction  and  could  take 
it  on  the  way  home." 

"All  right.  But  dinner?  That's  just  at  dinner-time — 
not  that  I  care." 

"We  could  have  something  when  we  get  home.     I  can  tell 
12 


178       THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

Alice  to  put  something  in  the  dining-room  for  us.  There's 
that  pie,  and  we  can  have  a  bottle  of  champagne  to  drink 
success  to  the  studio,  if  we  want  it." 

"And  Mrs.  Shiffney's  given  up?^' 

"We  can  see  how  we  feel.  She  only  asked  us  for  eleven. 
We  can  easily  dress  and  go,  it  we  want  to." 

So  it  was  settled. 

As  Claude  had  not  yet  begun  to  work  he  took  a  long  and 
solitary  walk  in  the  afternoon.  He  made  his  way  to  Batter- 
sea  Park,  and  spent  nearly  two  hours  there.  That  day  he  felt 
as  if  a  crisis,  perhaps  small  but  very  definite,  had  arisen  in  his 
life.  For  some  five  months  now  he  had  been  inactive.  He  had 
lost  the  long  habit  of  work.  He  had  allowed  his  life  to  be  dis- 
organized. No  longer  had  he  a  grip  on  himself  and  on  life. 
From  to-morrow  he  must  get  that  grip  again.  In  the  isolation 
of  the  studio  he  would  surely  be  able  to  get  it.  Yet  he  felt  very 
doubtful.  He  did  not  know  what  he  wanted  to  do.  He 
seemed  to  have  drifted  very  far  away  from  the  days  when  his 
talent,  or  his  genius,  spoke  with  no  uncertain  voice,  dictated 
to  him  what  he  must  do.  In  those  days  he  was  seldom  in 
doubt.  He  did  not  have  to  search.  There  was  no  vagueness  in 
his  life.  The  Bible,  that  inexhaustible  mine  of  great  literature, 
prompted  him  to  music.  But,  then,  he  was  living  in  compara- 
tive solitude.  Quiet  days  stretched  before  him,  empty  evenings. 
He  could  give  himself  up  to  what  was  within  him.  Even  now 
he  could  have  quiet  days.  He  had  recently  passed  not  a  few 
with  the  French  Revolution.  But  the  evenings  of  course  were 
not,  could  not  be,  empty.  He  often  went  out  with  Charmian. 
He  was  beginning  to  know  something  of  the  society  in  which 
she  had  always  lived.  There  were  many  pleasant,  some  charm- 
ing, people  in  it.  He  found  a  certain  enjoyment  in  the  little 
dinners,  the  theater  parties,  even  in  the  few  receptions  he  had 
been  to.  But  he  was  obliged  to  acknowledge  to  himself  that, 
when  in  this  society,  he  disliked  the  fact  that  he  was  an  un- 
known man.  This  society  did  not  give  him  the  incentive  to 
do  anything  great.  On  the  other  hand  it  made  him  dislike 
being — or  was  it  only  seeming? — small.  Charmian's  attitude, 
too,  had  often  rendered  him  secretly  uneasy  when  they  were 
among  people  together.  He  had  been  conscious  of  a  lurking 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        179 

dissatisfaction  in  her,  a  scarcely  repressed  impatience.  He  did 
not  know  exactly  what  was  the  matter.  But  he  felt  the  alert 
tension  of  the  woman  who  is  not  satisfied  with  her  position  in 
a  society.  It  had  reacted  upon  him.  He  had  felt  as  if  he  were 
closely  connected  with  it,  though  he  had  not  quite  understood 
how. 

All  this  now  rose  up,  seemed  to  spread  out  before  his  mind 
as  he  walked  in  Battersea  Park.  And  he  said  to  himself,  "It 
can't  go  on.  I  simply  must  get  to  work  on  something.  I 
must  get  a  grip  on  myself  and  my  life  again."  He  remembered 
the  heat  of  his  soul  after  he  had  heard  Jacques  Sennier's  opera, 
the  passion  almost  to  do  something  great  that  had  glowed  in 
him,  the  longing  for  fame.  Then  he  had  said  to  himself: 
"My  life  shall  feed  my  art.  I'll  live,  and  by  living  I'll  achieve." 
Out  of  that  heat  no  rare  flower  had  arisen.  He  had  come  out 
into  the  world.  He  had  married  Charmian,  had  travelled  in 
Italy.  And  that  was  all. 

i  That  day  he  was  angry  with  himself,  was  sick  of  his  idle 
life.  But  he  did  not  feel  within  him  the  strong  certainty  that 
he  would  be  able  to  take  his  life  in  hand  and  transform  it, 
which  drives  doubt  and  sorrow  out  of  a  man.  He  kept  on 
saying,  "I  must!"  But  he  did  not  say,  "I  shall!" 

The  fact  was  that  the  mainspring  was  missing  from  the 
watch.  Claude  was  living  as  if  he  loved,  but  he  was  not  loving. 

At  half-past  seven  he  passed  up  the  handsome  steps  and 
under  the  arch  which  led  to  his  studio. 

The  caretaker  with  gouty  hands  met  him.  This  man  had 
been  a  soldier,  and  still  had  a  soldier's  eyes,  and  a  way  of  pre- 
senting himself,  rather  sternly  and  watchfully,  to  those  arriving 
in  "my  building,"  as  he  called  the  house  full  of  studios,  which 
was  military.  But  gout,  and  it  is  to  be  feared  drink,  had  long 
ago  made  him  physically  flaccid,  and  mentally  rather  sulky  and 
vague.  He  looked  a  wreck,  and  as  if  he  guessed  that  he  was  a 
wreck.  An  artist  on  the  first  floor  had  labelled  him,  "The 
derelict  looking  for  tips  to  the  offing." 

"The  lady's  here,  sir,"  he  observed,  on  seeing  Claude. 

"Is  she?" 

"Been  'ere" — he  sometimes  dropped  an  aitch  and  some- 
times did  not — "this  half  hour." 


180        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

The  fact  apparently  surprised  him,  almost  indeed  upset  him. 

"This  'alf  hour,"  he  repeated,  this  time  dropping  the  aitch 
to  make  a  change. 

"Oh,"  said  Claude,  disdaining  the  explanation  which  seemed 
to  be  expected. 

He  walked  on,  leaving  the  guardian  to  his  gout. 

The  studio  was  lit  up,  and  directly  Claude  opened  the  door 
he  smelt  coffee  and  something  else — sausages,  he  fancied.  At 
once  he  guessed  why  Charmian  had  arranged  to  meet  him  at 
the  studio,  instead  of  going  there  with  him.  He  shut  the  door 
slowly.  Yes,  certainly,  sausages. 

"Charmian!"  he  called. 

She  came  out  from  behind  the  screen,  dressed  in  a  very  plain, 
workmanlike  black  gown,  over  which  she  was  wearing  a  large 
butcher  blue  apron.  Her  sleeves  were  turned  up  and  her  face 
was  flushed.  Claude  thought  she  looked  younger  than  she 
usually  did. 

"What  are  you  doing?" 

"Cooking  the  dinner,"  she  replied,  in  a  practical  voice. 
"It  will  be  ready  in  a  minute.  Take  off  your  coat  and  sit 
down." 

She  turned  round  and  disappeared.  Something  behind  the 
screen  was  hissing  like  a  snake. 

Claude  now  saw  a  table  laid  in  the  middle  of  the  studio.  On 
a  rough  white  cloth  were  plates,  knives,  and  forks,  large  coffee 
cups  with  flowers  coarsely  painted  on  a  gray  ground  with  a 
faint  tinge  of  blue  in  it,  rolls  of  bread,  butter,  a  cake  richly 
brown  in  color.  A  vase  of  coarse,  but  effective  pottery,  full  of 
scented  wild  geranium,  stood  in  the  midst.  Claude  took 
off  hat  and  coat,  hung  them  up  on  a  hook,  and  glanced  around. 

Certainly  Charmian  had  arranged  the  furniture  well, 
chosen  it  well,  too.  The  place  looked  cosy,  and  everything 
was  in  excellent  taste.  There  was  comfort  without  luxury. 
Claude  felt  that  he  ought  to  be  very  grateful. 

"Coming!" 

Her  voice  cried  out  from  behind  the  screen,  and  she  appeared 
bearing  a  large  dish  full  of  smoking  sausages,  which  she  set 
down  on  the  table. 

"Now  for  the  eggs  and  the  coffee!"  she  said. 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        181 

Another  moment  and  they  were  on  the  table,  too,  with  a 
plateful  of  buttered  toast. 

"Studio  fare!"  she  said,  taking  off  the  blue  apron,  pulling 
down  her  sleeves,  and  looking  at  Claude.  "Are  you  sur- 
prised?" 

"  I  was  for  the  first  moment." 

"And  then?" 

"  Well,  I  had  felt  sure  you  were  up  to  something,  that  you 
had  some  scheme  in  your  head,  some  plan  for  to-day.  But  I 
didn't  connect  it  with  sausages." 

Her  expression  changed  slightly. 

"Perhaps  it  isn't  only  sausages.  But  it  begins  with  them. 
Are  you  hungry?" 

"Yes,  very.    I've  been  walking  in  Battersea  Park." 

"Claudie,  how  awful!" 

They  sat  down  and  fell  to — Chairman's  expression.  She 
was  playing  at  the  Vie  de  Boheme,  but  she  thought  she  was 
being  rather  serious,  that  she  was  helping  to  launch  Claude 
in  a  new  and  suitable  life.  And  behind  the  light  absurdity  of 
this  quite  unnecessary  meal  there  was  intention,  grave  and 
intense.  The  wasted  two  months  must  be  made  up  for,  the 
hours  given  to  the  French  Revolution  be  redeemed.  This 
meal  was  only  the  prelude  to  something  else. 

"Is  it  good?"  she  asked,  as  Claude  ate  and  drank. 

"Excellent!    Where  have  you  been  to-day?" 

"I've  seen  Madre  and  Susan  Fleet." 

"Miss  Fleet  at  last." 

"Yes.  It  is  so  tiresome  her  moving  about  so  much.  I 
care  for  her  more  than  for  any  woman  in  London.  All  this 
time  she's  been  in  Paris  doing  things  for  Adelaide  Shiffney." 

"Did  Madre  know  about  to-night?" 

"No." 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  her?  Why  not  have  asked  her  to 
come?  We  belong  to  her  and  she  to  us.  It  would  have  been 
natural." 

"  I  love  Madre.     But  I  didn't  want  even  her  to-night." 

Claude  realized  that  he  was  assisting  at  a  prelude.  But  he 
only  said: 

"I  suppose  she  is  going  to  Mrs.  Shiffney's  to-night?" 


182        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

"Yes." 

When  they  had  finished  Charmian  said: 

"Now  I'll  clear  away." 

"I'll  help  you." 

"No,  you  mustn't.  I  want  you  to  sit  down  in  that  cosy 
chair  there,  and  light  your  cigar — oh,  or  your  pipe!  Yes, 
to-night  you  must  smoke  a  pipe." 

"  I  haven't  brought  it." 

"Well,  then,  a  cigar.     I  won't  be  long." 

She  began  clearing  the  table.  Claude  obediently  drew  out 
his  cigar-case.  He  still  felt  uneasy.  What  was  coming?  He 
could  not  tell.  But  he  felt  almost  sure  that  something  was 
coming  which  would  distress  his  secret  sensitiveness,  his  strong 
reserve. 

He  lit  a  cigar,  and  sat  down  in  the  armchair  Charmian  had 
indicated.  She  flitted  in  and  out,  removing  things  from  the 
table,  shook  out  and  folded  the  rough  white  cloth,  laid  it  away 
somewhere  behind  the  screen,  and  at  last  came  to  sit  down. 

The  studio  was  lit  up  with  electric  light. 

"There's  too  much  light,"  she  said.  "Don't  move.  I'll 
do  it." 

She  went  over  to  the  door,  and  turned  out  two  burners, 
leaving  only  one  alight. 

"Isn't  that  ever  so  much  better?"  she  said,  coming  to  sit 
down  near  Claude. 

"Well,  perhaps  it  is." 

"Cosier,  more  intime." 

She  sat  down  with  a  little  sigh. 

"I'm  going  to  have  a  cigarette." 

She  drew  out  a  thin  silver  case,  opened  it. 

"A  teeny  Russian  one." 

Claude  struck  a  match.  She  put  the  cigarette  between  her 
lips,  and  leaned  forward  to  the  tiny  flame. 

"That's  it." 

She  sighed. 

After  a  moment  of  silence  she  said: 

"I'm  glad  you  couldn't  work  in  the  little  room.  If  you 
had  been  able  to  we  should  never  have  had  this." 

"We!"  thought  Claude. 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        183 

"And,"  she  continued,  "I  feel  this  is  the  beginning  of 
great  things  for  you.  I  feel  as  if,  without  meaning  to,  I'd 
taken  you  away  from  your  path,  as  if  now  I  understood  better. 
But  I  don't  think  it  was  quite  my  fault  if  I  didn't  understand. 
Claudie,  do  you  know  you're  terribly  reserved?" 

"Am  I?  "he  said. 

He  shifted  in  his  chair,  took  the  cigar  out  of  his  mouth, 
and  put  it  back  again. 

"  Well,  aren't  you?  Two  whole  months,  and  you  never  told 
me  you  couldn't  work." 

"I  hated  to,  after  you'd  taken  so  much  trouble  with  that 
room." 

"I  know.  But,  still,  directly  you  did  tell  me,  I  perfectly 
understood.  I" — she  spoke  with  distinct  pressure — "I  am 
a  wife  who  can  understand.  Don't  you  remember  that  night 
at  Jacques  Sennier's  opera?" 

"Yes." 

"Didn't  I  understand  then?  At  the  end  when  they  were 
all  applauding?  I've  got  your  letter,  the  letter  you  wrote  that 
night.  I  shall  always  keep  it.  Such  a  burning  letter,  saying 
I  had  inspired  you,  that  my  love  and  belief  had  made  you  feel 
as  if  you  could  do  something  great  if  you  changed  your  life, 
if  you  lived  with  me.  You  remember?" 

"Yes,  Charmian,  of  course  I  remember." 

Claude  strove  with  all  his  might  to  speak  warmly,  impetu- 
ously, to  get  back  somehow  the  warmth,  the  impulse  that  had 
driven  him  to  write  that  letter.  But  he  remembered,  too,  his 
terrible  desire  to  get  that  letter  back  out  of  the  box.  And  he 
felt  guilty.  He  was  glad  just  then  that  Charmian  had  turned 
out  those  two  burners. 

"In  these  months  I  think  we  seem  to  have  got  away  from 
that  letter,  from  that  night." 

Claude  became  cold.  Dread  overtook  him.  Had  she 
detected  his  lack  of  love?  Was  she  going  to  tax  him  with 
it? 

"Oh,  surely  not!  But  how  do  you  mean?"  he  broke  in 
anxiously.  "That  was  a  special  night.  We  were  all  on  fire. 
One  cannot  always  live  at  that  high  pressure.  If  we  could  we 
should  wear  ourselves  out." 


184        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

"Yes,  perhaps.  But  geniuses  do  live  at  high  pressure. 
And  you  are  a  genius." 

At  that  moment  the  peculiar  sense  of  being  less  than  the 
average  man,  which  is  characteristic  of  greatly  talented  men 
in  their  periods  of  melancholy  and  reaction,  was  alive  in  Claude. 
Charmian's  words  intensified  it. 

"If  you  reckon  on  having  married  a  genius,  I'm  afraid 
you're  wrong,"  he  said,  with  a  bluntness  not  usual  in  him. 

"It  isn't  that!"  she  said  quickly,  almost  sharply.  "But 
I  can't  forget  things  Max  Elliot  has  said  about  you — long  ago. 
And  Madre  thinks — I  know  that,  though  she  doesn't  say 
anything.  And,  besides,  I  have  heard  some  of  your  things." 

"  And  what  did  you  really  think  of  them  ?  "  he  asked  abruptly. 

He  had  never  before  asked  his  wife  what  she  thought  of  his 
music.  She  had  often  spoken  about  it,  but  never  because  he 
had  asked  her  to.  But  this  apparently  was  to  be  an  evening 
of  a  certain  frankness.  Charmian  had  evidently  planned  that 
it  should  be  so.  He  would  try  to  meet  her. 

"That's  partly  what  I  wanted  to  talk  about  to-night." 

Claude  felt  as  if  something  in  him  suddenly  curled  up. 
Was  Charmian  about  to  criticize  his  works  unfavorably, 
severely  perhaps?  At  once  he  felt  within  him  a  sort  of  angry 
contempt  for  her  judgment. 

Charmian  was  faintly  conscious  of  his  fierce  independence, 
as  she  had  been  on  the  night  of  their  first  meeting;  of  the 
something  strong  and  permanent  which  his  manner  so  often 
contradicted,  a  mental  remoteness  which  was  disagreeable  to 
her,  but  which  impressed  her.  To-night,  however,  she  was 
resolved  to  play  the  Madame  Sennier  to  her  husband,  to  bring 
up  battalions  of  will. 

"Well?  "Claude  said. 

"I  think,  just  as  I  know  Madre  does,  that  your  things  are 
wonderful.  But  I  don't  think  they  are  for  everybody." 

"For  everybody!    How  do  you  mean?" 

"Oh,  I  know  the  bad  taste  of  the  crowd.  Why,  Madre 
always  laughs  at  me  for  my  horror  of  the  crowd.  But  there 
is  now  a  big  cosmopolitan  public  which  has  taste.  Look  at 
the  success  of  Strauss,  for  instance,  of  Debussy,  and  now  of 
Jacques  Sennier — our  own  Elgar,  too!  What  I  mean  is  that 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        185 

perhaps  the  things  you  have  done  hitherto  are  for  the  very  few. 
There  is  something  terrible  about  them,  I  think.  They  might 
almost  frighten  people.  They  might  almost  make  people 
dislike  you." 

She  was  thinking  of  the  Burningtons,  the  Drakes,  of  other 
Sennier-worshippers. 

"I  believe  it  is  partly  because  of  the  words  you  set,"  she 
added.  "Great  words,  of  course.  But  where  can  they  be 
sung?  Not  everywhere.  And  people  are  so  strange  about 
the  Bible." 

"Strange  about  the  Bible!" 

"English  people,  and  even  Americans,  at  any  rate.  There 
is  a  sort  of  queer,  absurd  tradition.  One  begins  to  think  of 
oratorio." 

She  paused.  Claude  said  nothing.  He  was  feeling  hot  all 
over. 

"  I  can't  help  wishing,  for  your  own  sake,  that  you  wouldn't 
always  go  to  the  Bible  for  your  inspiration." 

"  I  daresay  it  is  very  absurd  of  me." 

"Claudie,  you  could  never  be  absurd." 

"Anybody  can  be  absurd." 

"  I  could  never  think  you  absurd.  But  I  suppose  everyone 
can  make  a  mistake.  It  seems  to  me  as  if  there  are  a  lot  of 
channels,  some  short,  ending  abruptly,  some  long,  going 
almost  to  the  center  of  things.  And  genius  is  like  a  liquid 
poured  into  them.  I  only  want  you  to  pour  yours  into 
along  channel.  Is  it  very  stupid,  or  perverse,  of  me?" 

As  she  said  the  last  words  she  felt  deeply  conscious  of  her 
feminine  intelligence,  of  that  delicate  ingenuity  peculiar  to 
women,  unattainable  by  man. 

"No,  Charmian,  of  course  not.  So  you  think  I've  been 
pouring  into  a  very  short  channel?" 

"Don't  you?" 

"  I'm  afraid  I've  never  thought  about  it." 

"I  know.     It  wants  another  to  do  that,  I  think." 

"Very  likely." 

"You  care  for  strange  things.  One  can  see  that  by  your 
choice  of  words.  But  there  are  strange  and  wonderful  words 
not  in  the  Bible.  The  other  day  I  was  looking  into  Rossetti's 


186        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

poems.  I  read  Staff  and  Scrip  again  and  Sister  Helen.  There 
are  marvellous  passages  in  both  of  those.  I  wish  some- 
times you'd  let  me  come  in  here,  when  you're  done  working, 
and  make  tea  for  you,  and  just  cead  aloud  to  you  anything 
interesting  I  come  across." 

That  was  the  beginning  of  a  new  connection  between  hus- 
band and  wife,  the  beginning  also  of  a  new  epoch  in  Claude's 
life  as  a  composer. 

When  they  left  the  studio  that  night  he  had  agreed  to 
Charmian's  proposal  that  she  should  spend  some  of  her  spare 
time  in  looking  out  words  that  might  be  suitable  for  a  musical 
setting,  "in  your  peculiar  vein,"  as  she  said.  By  doing  this  he 
had  abandoned  his  complete  liberty  as  a  creator.  So  at  least 
he  felt.  Yet  he  also  felt  unable  to  refuse  his  wife's  request. 
To  do  so,  after  all  her  beneficent  energies  employed  on  his 
behalf,  would  be  churlish.  He  might  have  tried  to  explain 
that  the  something  within  him  which  was  really  valuable 
could  not  brook  bridle  or  spur,  that  unless  it  were  left  to  range 
where  it  would  in  untrammelled  liberty,  it  was  worth  very 
little  to  the  world.  He  knew  this.  But  a  man  may  deny  his 
knowledge  even  to  himself,  deny  it  persistently  through  long 
periods  of  time.  And  there  was  the  weakness  in  Claude  which 
instinctively  wished  to  give  to  others  what  they  expected  of 
him,  or  strongly  desired  from  him.  On  that  evening  in  the 
studio  Charmian's  definiteness  gained  a  point  for  her.  She 
was  encouraged  by  this  fact  to  become  more  definite. 

They  were  in  Kensington  by  ten  o'clock  that  night.  Char- 
mian  was  in  high  spirits.  A  strong  hope  was  dawning  in  her. 
Already  she  felt  almost  like  a  collaborator  with  Claude. 

"Don't  let  us  go  to  bed!"  she  exclaimed.  "Let  us  dress 
and  go  to  Adelaide  Shiffney's." 

"Very  well,"  replied  Claude.  "By  the  way,  what  were  you 
going  to  tell  me  about  her?" 

"Oh,  nothing!"  she  said. 

And  they  went  up  to  dress. 

There  was  a  crowd  in  Grosvenor  Square.  A  good  many 
people  were  still  abroad,  but  there  were  enough  in  London  to 
fill  Mrs.  Shiffney's  drawing-rooms.  And  notorieties,  beauties, 
and  those  mysterious  nobodies  who  "go  everywhere"  until 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        187 

they  almost  succeed  in  becoming  somebodies,  were  to  be  seen 
on  every  side.  Charmian  perceived  at  once  that  this  was  one 
of  Adelaide's  non-exclusive  parties.  Mrs.  Shiffney  seldom 
entertained  on  a  very  large  scale. 

"One  bore,  or  one  frump,  can  ruin  a  party,"  was  a  favorite 
saying  of  hers.  But  even  she,  now  and  then,  condescended 
to  "clear  people  off."  Charmian  realized  that  Adelaide  was 
making  a  clearance  to-night. 

Since  her  marriage  with  Claude  she  had  not  been  invited 
to  No.  14  B — Mrs.  Shiffney's  number  in  the  Square — before. 

As  she  came  in  to  the  first  drawing-room  and  looked  quickly 
round  she  thought: 

"  She  is  clearing  off  me  and  Claude." 

And  for  a  moment  she  wished  they  had  not  come.  Her 
old  horror  of  being  numbered  with  the  great  crowd  of  the 
undistinguished  came  upon  her  once  more.  Then  she  thought 
of  the  conversation  in  the  studio,  and  she  hardened  herself  in 
resolve. 

"He  shall  be  famous.  I  will  make  him  famous,  whether 
he  wishes  it,  cares  for  it,  or  not." 

Mrs.  Shiffney  was  not  standing  close  to  the  first  door  to 
"receive"  solemnly.  She  could  not  "be  bothered"  to  do 
that.  The  Heaths  presently  came  upon  her,  looking  very 
large  and  Roman,  in  the  middle  of  the  second  drawing-room. 

In  the  room  just  beyond  a  small  orchestra  was  playing. 
This  was  a  sure  sign  of  a  "clearance"  party.  Mrs. Shiffney 
never  had  an  orchestra  playing  alone,  and  steadily,  through 
an  evening  unless  bores  and  frumps  were  present.  "Hun- 
garians in  distress"  she  called  these  uniformed  musicians, 
"trying  to  help  bores  in  distress  and  failing  inevitably." 

She  held  out  her  hand  to  Charmian  with  a  faintly  ironic 
smile. 

"  I'm  so  glad  to  see  you.  Ah,  Mr.  Heath — Benedick  as  the 
married  man.  I  expect  you  are  doing  something  wonderful 
as  one  hears  nothing  about  you.  The  deep  silence  fills  me 
with  expectation." 

She  smiled  again,  and  turned  to  speak  to  an  old  lady  with 
fuzzy  white  hair. 


"One  of  the  fuzzywuzzies  who  go  to  private  views,  and 
who  insist  on  knowing  me  once  a  year  for  my  sins." 

Charmian's  lips  tightened  as  she  walked  slowly  on. 

She  met  many  people  whom  she  knew,  too  many;  and 
that  evening  she  felt  peculiarly  aware  of  the  insignificance  of 
Claude  and  herself,  combined  as  a  "married  couple,"  in  the 
eyes  of  this  society.  What  were  they?  Just  two  people  with 
fifteen  hundred  a  year  and  a  little  house  near  Kensington  High 
Street.  As  an  -unmarried  girl  in  Berkeley  Square,  with  a 
popular  mother,  possibilities  had  floated  about  her.  Clever, 
rising  men  came  to  that  house.  She  had  charm.  She  was 
"in"  everything.  Now  she  felt  that  a  sort  of  fiat  had  been 
pronounced,  perhaps  by  Adelaide  Shiffney,  and  her  following, 
"Charmian's  dropping  out." 

No  doubt  she  exaggerated.  She  was  half  conscious  that 
she  was  exaggerating.  But  there  was  surely  a  change  in  the 
attitude  people  adopted  toward  her.  She  attributed  it  to 
Mrs.  Shiffney.  "Adelaide  hates  Claude,"  she  said  to  herself, 
adding  a  moment  later  the  woman's  reason,  "  because  she  was 
in  love  with  him  before  he  married  me,  and  he  wouldn't  look 
at  her."  Such  a  hatred  of  Adelaide's  would  almost  have 
pleased  her,  had  not  Adelaide  unfortunately  been  so  very 
influential. 

Claude  caught  sight  of  Mrs.  Mansfield  and  went  to  join  her, 
while  Charmian  spoke  to  Lady  Mildred  Burnington,  and  then 
to  Max  Elliot. 

Lady  Mildred,  whose  eyes  looked  more  feverish  even  than 
usual,  and  whose  face  was  ravaged,  as  if  by  some  passion  or 
sorrow  for  ever  burning  within  her,  had  a  perfunctory  manner 
which  fought  with  her  expression.  Her  face  was  too  much 
alive.  Her  manner  was  half  dead.  Only  when  she  played 
the  violin  was  the  whole  woman  in  accord,  harmonious. 
Then  truth,  vigor,  intention  emerged  from  her,  and  she  con- 
quered. To-night  she  spoke  of  the  prospects  for  the  opera 
season,  looking  about  her  as  if  seeking  fresh  causes  for  dis- 
satisfaction. 

"It's  going  to  be  dull,"  she  said.  "Covent  Garden  has 
things  all  its  own  way,  and  therefore  it  goes  to  sleep.  But  in 
June  we  shall  have  Sennier.  That  is  something.  Without 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        189 

him  it  would  really  not  be  worth  while  to  take  a  box.  I  told 
Mr.  Brett  so." 

"What  did  he  say?"  asked  Charmian. 

"One  Sennier  makes  a  summer." 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  Max  Elliot  came  up,  looking  as 
he  nearly  always  did,  cheerful  and  ready  to  be  kind. 

"I  know,"  he  said  to  Lady  Mildred,  "you're  complaining 
about  the  opera.  "I've  just  been  with  the  Admiral." 

"Hilary  knows  less  about  music  than  even  the  average 
Englishman." 

"Well,  he's  been  swearing,  and  even — saving  your  pres- 
ence— cursing  by  Strauss." 

"He  thinks  that  places  him  with  the  connoisseurs.  It's 
his  ambition  to  prove  to  the  world  that  one  may  be  an  Admiral 
and  yet  be  quite  intelligent,  even  have  what  is  called  taste. 
He  declines  to  be  a  sea-dog." 

"I  think  it's  only  living  up  to  you.  But  have  you  really 
no  hope  of  the  opera?" 

"Very  little — unless  Sennier  saves  the  situation." 

"Has  he  anything  new?"  asked  Charmian. 

Max  Elliot  looked  happily  evasive. 

"Madame  Sennier  says  he  hasn't." 

"We  ought  to  have  a  rival  enterprise  here  as  they  have  in 
New  York  at  present,"  said  Lady  Mildred. 

"Sennier's  success  at  the  Metropolitan  has  nearly  killed 
the  New  Era,"  said  Elliot.  "But  Crayford  has  any  amount  of 
pluck,  and  a  purse  that  seems  inexhaustible.  I  suppose  you 
know  he's  to  be  here  to-night." 

"Mr.  Jacob  Crayford,  the  Impresario!"  exclaimed  Char- 
mian. "He's  in  England?" 

"Arrived  to-day  by  the  Lusitania  in  search  of  talent,  of 
someone  who  can  'produce  the  goods'  as  he  calls  it.  Adelaide 
sent  a  note  to  meet  him  at  the  Savoy,  and  he's  coming.  Shows 
his  pluck,  doesn't  it?  This  is  the  enemy's  camp." 

Max  Elliot  laughed  gaily.  He  loved  the  strong  battles 
of  art,  backed  by  "commercial  enterprise,"  and  was  friends 
with  everyone  though  he  could  be  such  a  keen  and  concen- 
trated partisan. 

"Crayford  would  give  a  hundred  thousand  dollars  without 


190        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

a  murmur  to  get  Jacques  away  from  the  Metropolitan,"  he 
continued. 

"Won't  he  go  for  that?"  asked  Lady  Mildred,  in  her 
hollow  voice.  "Is  Madame  Sennier  holding  out  for  two 
hundred  thousand?" 

Again  Max  Elliot  looked  happily  evasive. 

"Henriette!    Has  she  anything  to  do  with  it?" 

"Mr.  Elliot!  You  know  she  arranges  everything  for  her 
husband." 

"Do  I?    Do  I  really?    Ah,  there  is  Crayford!" 

"Where?"  said  Charmian,  turning  round  rather  sharply. 

"He's  going  up  to  Adelaide  now.  He's  taking  her  hand, 
just  over  there.  Margot  Drake  is  speaking  to  him." 

"Margot — of  course!    But  I  can't  see  them." 

Max  Elliot  moved. 

"If  you  stand  here.  Are  you  so  very  anxious  to  see 
Mm?" 

Charmian  saw  that  he  was  slightly  surprised. 

"Because  I've  heard  so  much  about  the  New  York  battle 
from  Margot." 

"To  be  sure!" 

"What— that  little  man!" 

"Why  not?" 

"With  the  tiny  beard!    It's  the  tiniest  beard  I  ever  saw." 

"More  brain  than  beard,"  said  Max  Elliot.  "I  can  assure 
you  Mr.  Crayford  is  one  of  the  most  energetic,  determined, 
enterprising,  and  courageous  men  on  either  side  of  the  Atlantic. 
Diabolically  clever,  too,  in  his  way,  but  an  idealist  at  heart. 
Some  people  in  America  think  that  last  fact  puts  him  at  a  dis- 
advantage as  a  manager.  It  certainly  gives  him  point  and 
even  charm  as  a  man." 

"I  should  like  very  much  to  know  him,"  said  Charmian. 
"Of  course  you  know  him?" 

"Yes." 

"Do  introduce  me  to  him." 

She  had  seen  a  faintly  doubtful  expression  flit  rapidly  across 
his  face,  and  noticed  that  Mr.  Crayford  was  already  surrounded. 
Adelaide  Shiffney  kept  him  in  conversation.  Margot  Drake 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        191 

stood  close  to  him,  and  fixed  her  dark  eyes  upon  him  with  an 
expression  of  still  determination.  Paul  Lane  had  come  up  to 
the  group.  Three  or  four  well-known  singers  were  converging 
upon  it  from  different  parts  of  the  room.  Charmian  quite 
understood.  But  she  thought  of  the  conversation  in  the  studio 
which  marked  the  beginning  of  a  new  epoch  in  her  life  with 
Claude,  and  she  repeated  quietly,  but  with  determination: 
"Please  introduce  me  to  him." 


CHAPTER  XVn 

A  WO  MAN  knows  in  a  moment  whether  a  man  is  suscept- 
ible to  woman's  charm,  to  sex  charm,  or  not.    There  are 
men  who  love,  who  have  loved,  or  who  will  love,  a  woman. 
And  there  are  men  who  love  woman.     Charmian  had  not  been 
with  Mr.  Jacob  Crayf ord  for  more  than  two  minutes  before  she 
knew  that  he  belonged  to  the  latter  class.    She  only  spent 
some  five  minutes  in  his  company,  after  Max  Elliot  had  intro- 
duced them  to  each  other.    But  she  came  away  from  Grosvenor 
Square  with  a  very  definite  conception  of  his  personality. 

Mr.  Crayford  was  small,  thin,  and  wiry-looking,  with  large 
keen  brown  eyes,  brown  and  gray  hair,  growing  over  a  well- 
formed  and  artistic  head  which  was  slightly  protuberant  at 
the  back,  and  rather  large,  determined  features.  At  a  first 
glance  he  looked  "Napoleonic."  Perhaps  this  was  intentional 
on  his  part.  His  skin  was  brown,  and  appeared  to  be  unusually 
dry.  He  wore  the  tiny  beard  noticed  by  Charmian,  and  a 
carefully  trained  and  sweeping  moustache.  His  ears  slightly 
suggested  a  faun.  His  hands  were  nervous,  and  showed 
energy,  and  the  tendency  to  grasp  and  to  hold.  His  voice 
was  a  thin  tenor,  with  occasional,  rather  surprisingly  deep 
chest  notes,  when  he  wished  to  be  specially  emphatic.  His 
smart,  well-cut  clothes,  and  big  emerald  shirt  stud,  and  sleeve 
links,  suggested  the  successful  impresario.  His  manner  was, 
on  a  first  introduction,  decidedly  businesslike,  cool,  and  watch- 
ful. But  in  his  eyes  there  were  sometimes  intense  flashes 
which  betokened  a  strong  imagination,  a  temperament  capable 
of  emotion  and  excitement.  His  eyelids  were  large  and 
rounded.  And  on  the  left  one  there  was  a  little  brown  wart. 
When  he  was  introduced  to  Charmian  he  sent  her  a  glance 
which  she  interpreted  as  meaning,  "What  does  this  woman 
want  of  me?"  It  showed  her  how  this  man  was  bombarded, 
how  instinctively  ready  he  was  to  be  alertly  on  the  defensive 
if  he  judged  defense  to  be  necessary. 

192 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        19$ 

"I've  heard  so  much  of  your  battles,  Mr.  Crayford,"  she 
said,  "that  I  wanted  to  know  the  great  fighter." 

She  had  assumed  her  very  self-possessed  manner,  the  minx- 
manner  as  some  people  called  it.  Claude  had  known  it 
well  in  the  "early  days."  It  gave  her  a  certain  very  modern 
charm  in  the  eyes  of  some  men.  And  it  suggested  a  womart 
who  lived  in  and  for  the  world,  who  had  nothing  to  do  with, 
any  work.  There  was  daintiness  in  it,  and  a  hint  of  imperti- 
nence. 

Mr.  Crayford  smiled  faintly.  He  had  a  slight  tic,  moving, 
his  eyebrows  sometimes  suddenly  upward. 

"A  good  set-to  now  and  then  does  no  one  any  harm  that. 
I  know  of,"  he  said,  speaking  rapidly. 

"They  say  over  here  you've  got  the  worst  of  it  this  season."' 

"Do  they  indeed?  Very  kind  and  obliging  of  them,  I'm: 
sure." 

"I  hope  it  isn't  true." 

"Are  you  an  enemy  of  the  great  and  only  Jacques  then?"" 
said  Mr.  Crayford. 

"Monsieur  Sennier?  Oh,  no!  I  was  at  the  first  perform- 
ance of  his  Paradis  Terrestre,  and  it  altered  my  whole  life." 
.  "Well,  they  like  it  over  in  New  York.  And  I've  got  to 
find  another  Paradise  to  put  up  against  it  just  as  quick  as  I 
know  how."  1 3?*-  '«*»*v~~- 

"  I  do  hope  you'll  be  successful." 

"I'll  put  Europe  through  my  sieve  anyway,"  said  Mr. 
Crayford.  "  No  man  can  do  more.  And  very  few  men  know 
the  way  to  do  as  much.  Are  you  interested  in  music?" 

"Intensely." 

She  paused,  looking  at  the  little  man  before  her.  She  was- 
hesitating  whether  to  tell  him  that  she  had  married  a  musician 
or  to  refrain.  Something  told  her  to  refrain,  and  she  added  r 

"I've  always  lived  among  musical  people  and  heard  the; 
best  of  everything." 

"Well,  opera's  the  only  thing  nowadays,  the  only  really 
big  proposition.  And  it's  going  to  be  a  bigger  proposition 
than  most  people  dream  of." 

His  eyes  flashed. 
13 


194        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

"Wait  till  I  build  an  opera  house  in  London,  something 
better  than  that  old  barn  of  yours  over  against  the  Police 
Station." 

"Are  you  going  to  build  an  opera-house  here?" 

"  Why  not?  But  I've  got  to  find  some  composers.  They're 
somewhere  about.  Bound  to  be.  The  thing  is  to  find  them. 
It  was  a  mere  chance  Sennier  coming  up.  If  he  hadn't  mar- 
ried his  wife  he'd  be  starving  at  this  minute,  and  I'd  be  lick- 
ing the  Metropolitan  into  a  cocked  hat." 

Charmian  longed  to  put  her  hand  on  the  little  man's  arm 
and  to  say: 

"I've  married  a  musician,  I've  married  a  genius.  Take 
him  up.  Give  him  his  chance." 

But  she  looked  at  those  big  brown  eyes  which  confronted 
her  under  the  twitching  eyebrows.  And  now  that  the  flash  was 
gone  she  saw  in  them  the  soul  of  the  business  man.  Claude 
was  not  a  "business  proposition."  It  was  useless  to  speak  of 
him  yet. 

"I  hope  you'll  find  your  composer,"  she  said  quietly, 
almost  with  a  dainty  indifference. 

Then  someone  came  up  and  claimed  Crayford  with  deter- 
mination. 

"That's  a  pretty  girl,"  he  remarked.  "Is  she  married? 
I  didn't  catch  her  name." 

"Oh,  yes,  she's  married  to  an  unknown  man  who  com- 
poses." 

" The  devil  she  is!" 

The  lips  above  the  tiny  beard  stretched  in  a  smile  that 
was  rather  sardonic. 

Before  going  away  Charmian  wanted  to  have  a  little  talk 
with  Susan  Fleet,  who  was  helping  Mrs.  Shiffney  with  the 
"fuzzywuzzies."  She  found  her  at  length  standing  before 
a  buffet,  and  entertaining  a  very  thin  and  angular  woman, 
dressed  in  black,  with  scarlet  flowers  growing  out  of  her  toilet 
in  various  unexpected  places.  Miss  Fleet  welcomed  Charmian 
with  her  usual  unimpassioned  directness,  and  introduced  her 
quietly  to  Miss  Gretch,  as  her  companion  was  called,  surpris- 
ingly. 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        195 

Miss  Gretch,  who  was  drinking  claret  cup,  and  eating  little 
rolls  which  contained  hidden  treasure  of  pate  de  foie  gras, 
bowed  and  smiled  with  anxious  intensity,  then  abruptly  be- 
came unnaturally  grave,  and  gazed  with  'a  sort  of  pierc- 
ing attention  at  Charmian's  hair,  jewels,  gown,  fan,  and 
shoes. 

"She  seems  to  be  memorizing  me,"  thought  Charmian, 
wondering  who  Miss  Gretch  was,  and  how  she  came  to  be 
there. 

"Stay  here  just  a  minute,  will  you?"  said  Susan  Fleet. 
"Adelaide  wants  me,  I  see.  I'll  be  back  directly." 

"Please  be  sure  to  come.  I  want  to  talk  to  you,"  said 
Charmian. 

As  Susan  Fleet  was  going  she  murmured: 

"Miss  Gretch  writes  for  papers." 

Charmian  turned  to  the  angular  guest  with  a  certain  alac- 
rity. They  talked  together  with  animation  till  Susan  Fleet 
came  back. 

A  week  later,  on  coming  down  to  breakfast  before  starting 
for  the  studio,  Claude  found  among  his  letters  a  thin  missive, 
open  at  the  ends,  and  surrounded  with  yellow  paper.  He  tore 
the  paper,  and  three  newspaper  cuttings  dropped  on  to  his 
plate. 

"What's  this?"  he  said  to  Charmian,  who  was  sitting 
opposite  to  him.  "Romeike  and  Curtice!  Why  should  they 
send  me  anything?" 

He  picked  up  one  of  the  cuttings. 

"  It's  from  a  paper  called  My  Lady" 

"What  is  it  about?" 

"It  seems  to  be  an  account  of  Mrs.  Shiffney's  party,  with 
something  marked  in  blue  pencil,  'Mrs.  Claude  Heath  came  in 
late  with  her  brilliant  husband,  whose  remarkable  musical 
compositions  have  not  yet  attained  to  the  celebrity  which  will 
undoubtedly  be  theirs  within  no  long  time.  The  few  who 
have  heard  Mr.  Heath's  music  place  him  with  Elgar,  Max 
Reger,  and  Delius.'  Then  a  description  of  what  you  were 
wearing.  How  very  ridiculous  and  objectionable!" 

Claude  looked  furious  and  almost  ashamed. 


196       THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

"Here's  something  else!  'A  Composer's  Studio,'  from 
The  World  and  His  Wife.  It  really  is  insufferable." 

"Why?    What  can  it  say?" 

"'Mr.  Claude  Heath,  the  rising  young  composer,  who 
recently  married  the  beautiful  Miss  Charmian  Mansfield,  cf 
Berkeley  Square,  has  just  rented  and  furnished  elaborately  a 
magnificent  studio  in  Renwick  Place,  Chelsea.  Exquisite 
Persian  rugs  stew  the  floor — ' 

Claude  stopped,  and  with  an  abrupt  movement  tore  the 
cuttings  to  pieces  and  threw  them  on  the  carpet. 

"What  can  it  mean?  Who  on  earth — ?  Charmian,  do 
you  know  anything  of  this?" 

"Oh,"  she  said,  with  a  sort  of  earnest  disgust,  mingled 
with  surprise,  "it  must  be  that  dreadful  Miss  Gretch!" 

"Dreadful  Miss  Gretch  1  I  never  heard  of  her.  Who  is 
she?" 

"At  Adelaide  Sniff ney's  the  other  night  Susan  Fleet  intro- 
duced me  to  a  Miss  Gretch.  I  believe  she  sometimes  writes, 
for  papers  or  something.  I  had  a  little  talk  with  her  while  I 
was  waiting  for  Susan  to  come  back." 

"Did  you  tell  her  about  the  studio?" 

"Let  me  see!  Did  I?  Yes,  I  believe  I  did  say  something. 
You  see,  Claude,  it  was  the  night  of — " 

"I  know  it  was.     But  how  could  you — ?" 

"How  could  I  suppose  things  said  in  a  private  conversa- 
tion would  ever  appear  in  print?  I  only  said  that  you  had  a 
studio  because  you  composed  and  wanted  quiet,  and  that  I 
had  been  picking  up  a  few  old  things  to  make  it  look  homey. 
How  extraordinary  of  Miss  Gretch!" 

"It  has  made  me  look  very  ridiculous.  I  am  quite  un- 
known, and  therefore  it  is  impossible  for  the  public  to  be 
interested  in  me.  Miss  Gretch  is  certainly  a  very  inefficient 
journalist.  Elgar!  Deliustoo!  I  wonder  she  didn't  compare 
me  with  Scriabine  while  she  was  about  it.  How  hateful  it  is 
being  made  a  laughing-stock  like  this." 

"Oh,  nobody  reads  those  papers,  I  expect.  Still,  Miss 
Gretch—" 

" Gretch!    What  a  name!"  said  Claude. 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        197 

His  anger  vanished  in  an  abrupt  fit  of  laughter,  but  he 
started  for  the  studio  in  half  an  hour  looking  decidedly  grim. 
When  he  had  gone  Charmian  picked  up  the  torn  cuttings  which 
were  lying  on  the  carpet.  She  had  been  very  slow  in  finishing 
breakfast  that  day. 

Since  her  meeting  with  Jacob  Crayford  her  mind  had  run 
perpetually  on  opera.  She  could  not  forget  his  words,  spoken 
with  the  authority  of  the  man  who  knew,  "Opera's  the  only 
thing  nowadays,  the  only  really  big  proposition."  She  could 
not  forget  that  he  had  left  England  to  "put  Europe  through 
his  sieve"  for  a  composer  who  could  stand  up  against  Jacques 
Sennier.  What  a  chance  there  was  now  for  a  new  man.  He 
was  being  actively  searched  for.  If  only  Claude  had  written 
an  opera!  If  only  he  would  write  an  opera  now! 

Charmian  never  doubted  her  husband's  ability  to  do  some- 
thing big.  Her  instinct  told  her  that  he  had  greatness  of  some 
kind  in  him.  His  music  had  deeply  impressed  her.  But  she 
was  sure  it  was  not  the  sort  of  thing  to  reach  a  wide  public. 
It  seemed  to  her  against  the  trend  of  taste  of  the  day.  There 
was  an  almost  terrible  austerity  in  it,  combined,  she  believed, 
with  great  power  and  originality.  She  longed  to  hear  some  of 
it  given  in  public  with  the  orchestra  and  voices.  She  had 
thought  of  trying  to  "get  hold  of"  one  of  the  big  conductors, 
Harold  Dane,  or  Vernon  Randall,  of  trying  to  persuade  him 
to  give  Claude  a  hearing  at  Queen's  Hall.  Then  a  certain  keen 
prudence  had  held  her  back.  A  voice  had  whispered,  "Be 
patient!"  She  realized  the  importance  of  the  first  step  taken 
in  public.  Jacques  Sennier  had  been  utterly  unknown  in 
England.  He  appeared  as  the  composer  of  the  Paradis 
Terrestre,  If  he  had  been  known  already  as  the  composer  of  a 
number  of  things  which  had  left  the  public  indifferent,  would  he 
have  made  the  enormous  success  he  had  made?  She  remem- 
bered Mascagni  and  his  Cavalleria,  Leoncavallo  and  his  Pag- 
liacci.  And  she  was  almost  glad  that  Claude  was  unknown. 
At  any  rate,  he  had  never  made  a  mistake.  That  was  some- 
thing to  be  thankful  for.  He  must  never  make  a  mistake. 
But  there  would  be  no  harm  in  arousing  a  certain  interest  in 
his  personality,  in  his  work.  A  man  like  Jacob  Crayford  kept 


198        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

a  sharp  look-out  for  fresh  talent.  He  read  all  that  appeared 
about  new  composers  of  course.  Or  someone  read  for  him. 
Even  "that  dreadful  Miss  Gretch's"  lucubrations  might  come 
under  his  notice. 

For  a  week  now  Claude  had  gone  every  day  after  breakfast 
to  the  studio.  Charmian  had  not  yet  disturbed  him  there. 
She  felt  that  she  must  handle  her  husband  gently.  Although 
he  was  so  kind,  so  disposed  to  be  sympathetic,  to  meet  people 
half  way,  she  knew  well  that  there  was  something  in  him  to 
which  as  yet  she  had  never  probed,  which  she  did  not  under- 
stand. She  was  sufficiently  intelligent  not  to  deceive  herself 
about  this,  not  to  think  that  because  Claude  was  a  man  of 
course  she,  a  woman,  could  see  all  of  him  clearly.  The  hidden 
something  in  her  husband  might  be  a  thing  resistent.  She 
believed  she  must  go  to  work  gently,  subtly,  even  though  she 
meant  to  be  very  firm.  So  she  had  let  Claude  have  a  week  to 
himself.  This  gave  him  time  to  feel  that  the  studio  was  a 
sanctum,  perhaps  also  that  it  was  a  rather  lonely  one.  Mean- 
while, she  had  been  searching  for  "words." 

That  task  was  a  difficult  one,  because  her  mind  was  ob- 
sessed by  the  thought  of  opera.  Oratorio  had  always  been  a 
hateful  form  of  art  to  her.  She  had  grown  up  thinking  it 
old-fashioned,  out-moded,  absurdly  "plum-puddingy,"  and 
British.  In  the  realm  of  orchestral  music  she  was  more  at 
home.  She  honestly  loved  orchestral  music  divorced  from 
words.  But  the  music  of  Claude's  which  she  knew  was  joined 
with  words.  And  he  must  do  something  with  words.  For 
that,  as  it  were,  would  lead  the  way  toward  opera.  Orchestral 
music  was  more  remote  from  opera.  If  Claude  set  some 
wonderful  poem,  and  a  man  like  Jacob  Crayford  heard  the 
setting,  he  might  see  a  talent  for  opera  in  it.  But  he  could 
scarcely  see  that  in  a  violin  concerto,  a  quartet  for  strings,  or  a 
symphony.  So  she  argued.  And  she  searched  anxiously 
for  words  which  might  be  set  dramatically,  descriptively.  She 
dared  not  assail  Claude  yet  with  a  libretto  for  opera.  She  felt 
sure  he  would  say  he  had  no  talent  for  such  work,  that  he  was 
not  drawn  toward  the  theater.  But  if  she  could  lead  him 
gradually  toward  things  essentially  dramatic,  she  might 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        199 

wake  up  in  him  forces  the  tendency  of  which  he  had  never 
suspected. 

She  re-read  Rossetti,  Keats,  Shelley,  dipped  into  William 
Morris, — Wordsworth  no — into  Fiona  Macleod,  William  Wat- 
son, John  Davidson,  Alfred  Noyes.  Now  and  then  she  was 
strongly  attracted  by  something,  she  thought,  "Will  it  do?" 
And  always  at  such  moments  a  vision  of  Jacob  Crayford  seemed 
to  rise  up  before  her,  with  large  brown  eyes,  ears  like  a  faun, 
nervous  hands,  and  the  tiny  beard.  "  Is  it  a  business  proposi- 
tion?" The  moving  lips  said  that.  And  she  gazed  again  at 
the  poem  which  had  arrested  her  attention,  she  thought,  "Is 
it  a  business  proposition?"  Keats's  terribly  famous  Belle 
Dame  Sans  Merci  really  attracted  her  more  than  anything  else. 
She  knew  it  had  been  set  by  Cyril  Scott,  and  other  ultra- 
modern composers,  but  she  felt  that  Claude  could  do  some- 
thing wonderful  with  it.  Yet  perhaps  it  was  too  well  known. 

One  lyric  of  William  Watson's  laid  a  spell  upon  her: 

"Pass,  thou  wild  heart, 
Wild  heart  of  youth  that  still 
Hast  half  a  will 

To  stay. 
I  grow  too  old  a  comrade,  let  us  part. 

Pass  thou  away." 

She  read  that  and  the  preceding  verse  again  and  again,  in 
the  grip  of  a  strange  and  melancholy  fascination,  dreaming. 
She  woke,  and  remembered  that  she  was  young,  that  Claude 
was  young.  But  she  had  reached  out  and  touched  old  age. 
She  had  realized,  newly,  the  shortness  of  the  time.  And  a  sort 
of  fever  assailed  her.  Claude  must  begin,  must  waste  no  more 
precious  hours;  she  would  take  him  the  poem  of  William 
Watson,  would  read  it  to  him.  He  might  make  of  it  a  song, 
and  in  the  making  he  would  learn  something  perhaps — to 
hasten  on  the  path. 

She  started  for  the  studio  one  day,  taking  the  Belle  Dame, 
William  Watson's  poems,  and  two  or  three  books  of  French 
poetry,  Verlaine,  Montesquieu,  Moreas. 


200        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

| 

She  arrived  in  Renwick  Place  just  after  four  o'clock.  She 
meant  to  make  tea  for  Claude  and  herself,  and  had  brought 
-with  her  some  little  cakes  and  a  bottle  of  milk.  Quite  a  load 
she  was  carrying.  The  gouty  hands  of  the  caretaker  went  up 
•when  he  saw  her. 

"My,  ma'am,  what  a  heavy  lot  for  you  to  be  carrying!" 

"I'm  strong.     Mr.  Heath's  in  the  studio?" 

Before  the  man  could  reply  she  heard  the  sound  of  a 
piano. 

"Oh,  yes,  he  is.  Is  there  water  there?  Yes.  That's 
light.  I'm  going  to  boil  the  kettle  and  make  tea." 

She  went  on  quickly,  opened  the  door  softly,  and  slipped  in. 

Claude,  who  sat  with  his  back  to  her  playing,  did  not  hear 
her.  She  crept  behind  the  screen  into  what  she  called  "the 
kitchen."  What  fun!  She  could  make  the  tea  without  his 
knowing  that  she  was  there,  and  bring  it  in  to  him  when  he 
stopped  playing. 

As  she  softly  prepared  things  she  listened  attentively,  with 
a  sort  of  burning  attention,  to  the  music.  She  had  not  heard  it 
before.  She  knew  that  when  her  husband  was  composing  he 
did  not  go  to  the  piano.  This  must  be  something  which  he 
had  just  composed  and  was  trying  over.  It  sounded  to  her 
mystic,  remote,  very  strange,  almost  like  a  soul  communing 
with  itself;  then  more  violent,  more  sonorous,  but  always  very 
strange. 

The  kettle  began  to  boil.  She  got  ready  the  cups.  In 
turning  she  knocked  two  spoons  down  from  a  shelf.  They  fell 
on  the  uncarpeted  floor. 

"  What's  that?    Who's  there?  " 

Claude  had  stopped  playing  abruptly.  His  voice  was  the 
voice  of  a  man  startled  and  angry. 

"Who's  there?"  he  repeated  loudly. 

She  heard  him  get  up  and  come  toward  the  screen. 

"Claudie,  do  forgive  me!  I  slipped  in.  I  thought  I  would 
make  tea  for  you.  It's  all  ready.  But  I  didn't  mean  to 
interrupt  you.  I  was  waiting  till  you  had  finished.  I'm  so 
sorry." 

"You,  Charmian!" 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        201 

There  was  an  odd  remote  expression  in  his  eyes,  and  his 
whole  face  looked  excited. 

"Do — do  forgive  me,  Claudie!    Those  dreadful  spoons!"1 

She  picked  them  up. 

"Of  course.     What  are  all  these  books  doing  here?" 

"I  brought  them.  I  thought  after  tea  we  might  talk  over 
words.  You  remember?" 

"Oh,  yes.     Well — but  I've  begun  on  something." 

"Were  you  playing  it  just  now?'\ 

"  Some  of  it." 

"What  is  it?" 

"Francis  Thompson's  The  Hound  of  Heaven" 

Jacob  Crayford — what  would  he  think  of  that  sort  of  thing? 

"You  know  it,  don't  you?"  Claude  said,  as  she  was  silent. 

"I've  read  it,  but  quite  a  while  ago.  I  don't  remember  it 
well.  Of  course  I  know  it's  very  wonderfuL  Madre  loves 
it." 

"She  was  speaking  of  it  at  the  Shiffney's  the  other  night.. 
That's  why  it  occurred  to  me  to  study  it." 

"Oh.     Well,  now  you  have  stopped  shall  we  have  tea?"" 

"Yes.     I've  done  enough  for  to-day." 

After  tea  Charmian  said: 

"I'll  study  The  Hound  of  Heaven  again.  But  now  do  you1 
mind  if  I  read  you  two  or  three  of  the  things  I  have  here?" 

"No,"  he  said  kindly,  but  not  at  all  eagerly.  "Do  read, 
anything  you  like." 

It  was  six  o'clock  when  Charmian  read  Watson's  poem  "to 
finish  up  with."  Claude  who,  absorbed  secretly  by  the  thought 
of  his  new  composition,  had  listened  so  far  without  any  keen 
interest,  at  moments  had  not  listened  at  all,  though  preserving 
a  decent  attitude  and  manner  of  attention,  suddenly  woke  up 
into  genuine  enthusiasm. 

"Give  me  that,  Charmian  1"  he  exclaimed.  "I  scarcely 
ever  write  a  song.  But  I'll  set  that." 

She  gave  him  the  book  eagerly. 

That  evening  they  were  at  home.  After  dinner  Claude 
went  to  his  little  room  to  write  some  letters,  and  Charmian 
read  The  Hound  of  Heaven.  She  decided  against  it,  Beauti- 


202        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

ful  though  it  was,  she  considered  it  too  mystic,  too  religious. 
She  was  sure  many  people  could  not  understand  it. 

"I  wish  Madre  hadn't  talked  to  Claude  about  it,"  she 
thought.  "He  thinks  so  much  of  her  opinion.  And  she 
doesn't  care  in  the  least  whether  Claude  makes  a  hit  with  the 
public  or  not." 

The  mere  thought  of  the  word  "hit"  in  connection  with 
Mrs.  Mansfield  almost  made  Charmian  smile. 

"I  suppose  there's  something  dreadfully  vulgar  about  me," 
she  said  to  herself.  "But  I  belong  to  the  young  generation. 
I  can't  help  loving  success." 

Mrs.  Mansfield  had  been  the  friend,  was  the  friend,  of  many 
successful  men.  They  came  to  her  for  sympathy,  advice.  She 
followed  their  upward  careers  with  interest,  rejoiced  in  their 
triumphs.  But  she  cared  for  the  talent  in  a  man  rather  than 
for  what  it  brought  him.  Charmian  knew  that.  And  long  ago 
Mrs.  Mansfield  had  spoken  of  the  plant  that  must  grow  in 
darkness.  At  this  time  Charmian  began  almost  to  dread  her 
mother's  influence  upon  her  husband. 

She  was  cheered  by  a  little  success. 

Claude  set  Watson's  poem  rapidly.  He  played  the  song 
to  Charmian,  and  she  was  delighted  with  it. 

''I  know  people  would  love  that!"  she  cried. 

"If  it  was  properly  sung  by  someone  with  temperament," 
he  replied.  "  And  now  I  can  go  on  with  The  Hound  of  Heaven." 

Her  heart  sank. 

"I'm  only  a  little  afraid  they  may  think  you  are  imitating 
Elgar,"  she  murmured  after  a  moment. 

"  Imitating  Elgar!" 

"Not  that  you  are,  or  ever  would  do  such  a  thing.  It  isn't 
your  music,  it's  the  subject,  that  makes  me  a  little  afraid.  It 
seems  to  me  to  be  an  Elgar  subject." 

"Really!" 

The  conversation  dropped,  and  was  not  resumed.  But  a 
fortnight  later,  when  Charmian  came  to  make  tea  in  the  studio, 
and  asked  as  to  the  progress  of  the  new  work,  Claude  said 
rather  coldly: 

"I'm  not  going  on  with  it  at  present." 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        203 

She  saw  that  he  was  feeling  depressed,  and  realized  why. 
But  she  was  secretly  triumphant  at  the  success  of  her  influence, 
secretly  delighted  with  her  own  cleverness.  How  deftly,  with 
scarcely  more  than  a  word,  she  had  turned  him  from  his  task. 
Surely  thus  had  Madame  Sennier  influenced,  guided  her 
husband. 

"I  believe  I  could  do  anything  with  Claude,"  she  said  to 
herself  that  day. 

"Play  me  your  Watson  song  again,  Claudie,"  she  said. 
"I  do  love  it  so." 

"It's  only  a  trifle." 

"I  love  it!"  she  repeated. 

He  sat  down  at  the  piano  and  played  it  to  her  once  more. 
When  he  had  finished  she  said: 

"I've  found  someone  who  could  sing  that  gloriously." 

"Who?  "he  asked. 

Playing  the  song  had  excited  him.  He  turned  eagerly 
toward  her. 

"A  young  American  who  has  been  studying  in  Paris.  I 
met  him  at  the  Drakes'  two  or  three  days  ago.  Mr.  Jacob 
Crayford,  the  opera  man,  thinks  a  great  deal  of  him,  I'm  told. 
Let  me  ask  him  to  come  here  one  day  and  try  the  Wild  Heart. 
May  I?" 

"Yes,  do,"  said  Claude. 

"And  meanwhile  what  are  you  working  on  instead  of  The 
Hound  of  Heaven?  " 

Claude's  expression  changed.  He  seemed  to  stiffen  with 
reserve.  But  he  replied,  with  a  kind  of  elaborate  carelessness: 

"I  think  of  trying  a  violin  concerto.  That  would  be  quite 
a  new  departure  for  me.  But  you  know  the  violin  was  my 
second  study  at  the  Royal  College." 

"That  won't  do,"  thought  Charmian. 

"If  only  Kreisler  would  take  it  up  when  it  is  finished  as 
he  took  up — "  she  began. 

Claude  interrupted  her. 

"  It  may  take  me  months,  so  it's  no  use  thinking  about  who 
is  to  play  it.  Probably  it  will  never  be  played  at  all." 

"Then  why  compose  it?"  she  nearly  said. 


204        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

But  she  did  not  say  it.  What  was  the  use,  when  she  had 
resolved  that  the  concerto  should  be  abandoned  as  The 
Hound  of  Heaven  had  been? 

She  brought  the  young  American,  whose  name  was  Alston 
Lake,  to  the  studio.  Claude  took  a  fancy  to  him  at  once. 
Lake  sang  the  Wild  Heart,  tried  it  a  second  time,  became 
enthusiastic  about  it.  His  voice  was  a  baritone,  and  exactly 
suited  the  song.  He  begged  Claude  to  let  him  sing  the  song 
during  the  season  at  the  parties  for  which  he  was  engaged. 
They  studied  it  together  seriously.  During  these  rehearsals 
Charmian  sat  in  an  armchair  a  little  way  from  the  piano 
listening,  and  feeling  the  intensity  of  an  almost  feverish  antici- 
pation within  her. 

This  was  the  first  step  on  the  way  of  ambition.  And  she 
had  caused  Claude  to  take  it.  Never  would  he  have  taken  it 
without  her.  As  she  listened  to  the  two  men  talking,  discuss- 
ing together,  trying  passages  again  and  again,  forgetful  for 
the  moment  of  her,  she  thrilled  with  a  sense  of  achieved 
triumph.  Glory  seemed  already  within  her  grasp.  She  ran 
forward  in  hope,  like  a  child  almost.  She  saw  the  goal  like 
a  thing  quite  near,  almost  close  to  her. 

"People  will  love  that  songl  They  will  love  it!"  she  said 
to  herself. 

And  their  love,  what  might  it  not  do  for  Claude,  and  to 
Claude?  Surely  it  would  infect  him  with  the  desire  for  more 
of  that  curious  heat-giving  love  of  the  world  for  a  great  talent. 
Surely  it  would  carry  him  on,  away  from  the  old  reserves, 
from  the  secrecies  which  had  held  him  too  long,  from  the 
darkness  in  which  he  had  labored.  For  whom?  For  him- 
self perhaps,  or  no  one.  Surely  it  would  carry  him  on  along 
the  great  way  to  the  light  that  illumined  the  goal. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

AT  the  end  of  November  in  that  same  year  the  house  in 
Kensington  Square  was  let,  the  studio  in  Renwick  Place 
was  shut  up,  and  Claude  and  Charmian  were  staying  in 
Berkeley  Square  with  Mrs.  Mansfield  for  a  couple  of  nights 
before  their  departure  for  Algiers,  where  they  intended  to 
stay  for  an  indefinite  time.  They  had  decided  first  to  go  to 
the  Hotel  St.  George  at  Mustapha  Superieur,  and  from  there 
to  prosecute  their  search  for  a  small  and  quiet  villa  in  which 
Claude  could  settle  down  to  work.  Most  of  their  luggage 
was  already  packed.  A  case  of  music,  containing  a  large 
number  of  full  scores,  stood  in  Mrs.  Mansfield's  hall.  And 
Charmian  was  out  at  the  dressmaker's  with  Susan  Fleet,  try- 
ing on  the  new  gowns  she  was  taking  with  her  to  a  warmer 
climate  than  England's. 

This  vital  change  in  two  lives  had  come  about  through  a 
song. 

The  young  American  singer,  Alston  Lake,  had  been  true 
to  his  word.  During  the  past  London  season  he  had  sung 
Claude's  Wild  Heart  of  Youth  everywhere.  And  people, 
the  right  people,  had  liked  it.  Swiftly  composed  in  an  hour 
of  enthusiasm  it  was  really  a  beautiful  and  original  song.  It 
was  a  small  thing,  but  it  was  a  good  thing.  And  it  was  pre- 
sented to  the  public  by  a  new  and  enthusiastic  man  who  at 
once  made  his  mark  both  as  a  singer  and  as  a  personality. 
Although  one  song  cannot  make  anybody  a  composer  of  mark 
in  the  esteem  of  a  great  public,  yet  Claude's  drew  some  atten- 
tion to  him.  But  it  did  more  than  this.  It  awoke  in  Claude 
a  sort  of  spurious  desire  for  greater  popularity,  which  was 
assiduously  fostered  by  Charmian.  The  real  man,  deep  down, 
had  a  still  and  inexorable  contempt  for  laurels  easily  won,  for 
the  swift  applause  of  drawing-rooms.  But  the  weakness  in 
Claude,  a  thing  of  the  surface,  weed  floating  on  a  pool  that  had 

205 


206        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

depths,  responded  to  the  applause,  to  the  congratulations, 
with  an  almost  anxious  quickness.  His  mind  began  to  concern 
itself  too  often  with  the  feeble  question,  "What  do  people 
want  of  me?  What  do  they  want  Ifne  to  do?"  Often  he 
played  the  accompaniment  to  his  song  at  parties  that  season 
when  Alston  Lake  sang  it,  and  he  enjoyed  too  much — that  is 
his  surface  enjoyed  too  much — the  pleasure  it  gave,  the  demon- 
strations it  evoked.  He  received  with  too  much  eagerness 
the  congratulations  of  easily  touched  women. 

Mrs.  Mansfield  noticed  all  this,  and  it  diminished  her 
natural  pleasure  in  her  son-in-law's  little  success.  But  Char- 
mian  was  delighted  to  see  that  Claude  was  "becoming  human 
at  last."  The  weakness  in  her  husband  made  her  trust 
more  fully  her  own  power.  She  realized  that  events  were 
working  with  her,  were  helping  her  to  increase  her  influence. 
She  blossomed  with  expectation. 

Alston  Lake  had  his  part  in  the  circumstances  which  were 
now  about  to  lead  the  Heaths  away  from  England,  were 
to  place  them  in  new  surroundings,  submit  them  to  fresh 
influences. 

His  voice  had  been  "discovered"  in  America  by  Jacob 
Crayford,  who  had  sent  him  to  Europe  to  be  trained,  and 
intended,  if  things  went  well  and  he  proved  to  have  the  value 
expected  of  him,  to  bring  him  out  at  the  opera  house  in  New 
York,  which  was  trying  to  put  a  fight  against  the  Metro- 
politan. 

"I  shouldn't  wonder  if  I've  got  another  Battistini  in  that 
boy!"  Crayford  sometimes  said  to  people.  "He's  got  a 
wonderful  voice,  but  I  wouldn't  have  paid  for  his  training  if 
he  hadn't  something  that's  bullier." 

"What's  that?" 

"The  devil's  own  ambition." 

Crayford  had  not  mistaken  his  man.  He  seldom  did. 
Alston  Lake  had  a  will  of  iron  and  was  possessed  of  a  passion- 
ate determination  to  succeed.  He  had  a  driving  reason  that 
made  him  resolve  to  "win  out"  as  he  called  it.  His  father, 
who  was  a  prosperous  banker  in  Wall  Street,  had  sternly 
vetoed  an  artistic  career  for  his  only  son.  Alston  had  re- 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        207 

belled,  then  had  given  in  for  a  time,  and  gone  into  Wall 
Street.  Instead  of  proving  his  unfitness  for  a  career  he 
loathed,  he  showed  a  marked  aptitude  for  business,  inherited 
no  doubt  from  his  father.  He  could  do  well  what  he  hated 
doing.  This  fact  accentuated  his  father's  wrath  when  he 
abruptly  threw  up  business  and  finally  decided  that  he  would 
be  a  singer  or  nothing.  The  Wall  Street  magnate  stopped  all 
supplies.  Then  Crayford  took  Alston  up.  For  three  years 
Alston  had  lived  on  the  impresario's  charity  in  Paris.  Was 
it  matter  for  wonder  if  he  set  his  teeth  and  resolved  to  win 
out?  He  had  in  him  the  grit  of  young  America,  that  intensity 
of  life  which  sweeps  through  veins  like  a  tide. 

"Father's  going  to  see  presently,"  he  often  said  to  him- 
self. "He's  just  got  to,  and  that's  all  there  is  to  it." 

This  young  man  was  almost  as  a  weapon  in  Charmian's 
hand. 

He  was  charming,  and  specially  charming  in  his  enthu- 
siasm. He  had  the  American  readiness  to  meet  others  half 
way,  the  American  lack  of  shyness.  Despite  the  iron  of 
his  will,  the  fierceness  of  his  young  determination,  he  was 
often  naive  almost  as  a  schoolboy.  The  evil  of  Paris  had 
swirled  about  him  and  had  left  him  unstained  by  its  black- 
ness. He  was  no  fool.  He  was  certainly  not  ignorant  of  life. 
But  he  preserved  intact  a  delightful  freshness  that  often 
seemed  to  partake  of  innocence. 

And  he  worked,  as  he  expressed  it,  "like  the  devil." 

Charmian,  genuinely  liking  him,  but  also  seeing  his  possi- 
bilities as  a  lever,  or  weapon,  was  delightful  to  him.  Claude 
also  took  to  him  at  once.  The  song  seemed  to  link  them  all 
together  happily.  Very  soon  Alston  was  almost  as  one  of 
the  Heath  family.  He  came  perpetually  to  the  studio  to 
"try  things  over."  He  brought  various  American  friends 
there.  He  ate  improvised  meals  there  at  odd  times,  Charmian 
acting  as  cook.  He  had  even  slept  there  more  than  once, 
when  they  had  been  making  music  very  late.  And  Charmian 
had  had  a  bed  put  on  the  platform  behind  the  screen,  and 
called  it  "  the  Prophet's  chamber." 

This  young  and  determined  enthusiast  had  a  power  of 


208       THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

flooding  others  with  his  atmosphere.  He  flooded  Claude 
with  it.  And  his  ambition  made  his  atmosphere  what  it 
was.  Here  was  another  who  meant  to  "produce  the  goods." 

Never  before  had  Claude  come  closely  in  contact  with  the 
vigor,  with  the  sharply  cut  ideals,  of  the  new  world.  He 
began  to  see  many  things  in  a  new  way,  to  see  some  things 
which  he  had  never  perceived  before.  Among  them  he  saw 
the  fine  side  of  ambition.  He  respected  Alston's  determina- 
tion to  win  out,  to  justify  his  conduct  in  his  father's  eyes,  and 
pay  back  to  Mr.  Crayford  with  interest  all  he  had  received 
from  that  astute,  yet  not  unimaginative,  man.  He  loved 
the  lad  for  his  eagerness.  When  Alston  came  to  Renwick 
Place  a  wind  from  the  true  Bohemia  seemed  to  blow  through 
the  studio,  and  the  day  seemed  young  and  golden. 

Yet  Alston,  quite  ignorantly,  did  harm  to  Claude.  For  he 
helped  to  win  Claude  away  from  his  genuine,  his  inner  self, 
to  draw  him  into  the  path  which  he  had  always  instinctively 
avoided  until  his  marriage  with  Charmian. 

Although  unspoiled,  Alston  Lake  had  not  been  unaffected 
by  Paris,  which  had  done  little  harm  to  his  morals,  but  which 
had  decidedly  influenced  his  artistic  sensibility.  The  brilliant 
city  had  not  smirched  his  soul,  but  it  had  helped  to  form  his 
taste.  That  was  very  modern,  and  very  un-British.  Alston 
had  a  sort  of  innocent  love  for  the  strange  and  the  complex 
in  music.  He  shrank  from  anything  banal,  and  disliked  the 
obvious,  though  his  contact  with  French  people  had  saved 
him  from  love  of  the  cloudy.  As  he  intended  to  make  his 
career  upon  the  stage,  and  as  he  was  too  young,  and  far  too 
enthusiastic,  not  to  be  a  bit  of  an  egoist,  he  was  naturally 
disposed  to  think  that  all  real  musical  development  was  likely 
to  take  place  in  the  direction  of  opera. 

"Opera's  going  to  be  the  big  proposition!"  was  his  art 
cry.  There  was  no  doubt  of  Jacob  Crayford's  influence  upon 
him. 

He  was  the  first  person  who  turned  Claude's  mind  seriously 
toward  opera,  and  therefore  eventually  toward  a  villa  in 
Algeria. 

Having    launched    the    song    with    success,    Alston   Lake 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        209 

naturally  wished  to  hear  more  of  Claude's  music.  Claude 
played  to  him  a  great  deal  of  it.  He  was  interested  in  it, 
admired  it.  But — and  here  his  wholly  unconscious  egoism 
came  into  play — he  did  not  quite  "believe  in  it."  And  his 
lack  of  belief  probably  emanated  from  the  fact  that  Claude's 
settings  of  words  from  the  Bible  were  not  well  suited  to  his 
own  temperament,  talent,  or  training.  Being  very  frank, 
and  already  devoted  to  Claude,  he  said  straight  out  what  he 
thought.  Charmian  loved  him  almost  for  expressing  her 
secret  belief.  She  now  said  what  she  thought.  Claude, 
the  reserved  and  silent  recluse  of  a  few  months  ago,  was  in- 
duced by  these  two  to  come  out  into  the  open  and  take  part 
in  the  wordy  battles  which  rage  about  art.  The  instant 
success  of  his  song  took  away  from  him  an  excuse  which  he 
might  otherwise  have  made,  when  Charmian  and  Alston  Lake 
urged  him  to  compose  with  &.  view  to  pleasing  the. public  taste; 
by  which  they  both  meant  the  taste  of  the  cultivated  public 
which  was  now  becoming  widely  diffused,  and  which  had 
acquired  power.  He  could  not  say  that  his  talent  was  one 
which  had  no  appeal  to  the  world,  that  he  was  incapable  of 
pleasing.  One  song  was  nothing.  So  he  declared.  Charmian 
and  Alston  Lake  in  their  enthusiasm  elevated  it  into  a  great 
indication,  lifted  it  up  like  a  lamp  till  it  seemed  to  shed  rays 
of  light  on  the  way  in  which  they  urged  Claude  to  walk. 

He  had  long  abandoned  his  violin  concerto,  and  had  worked 
on  a  setting  of  the  Belle  Dame  Sans  Merci  for  soprano,  chorus, 
and  orchestra.  But  before  it  was  finished — and  during  the 
season  his  time  for  work  was  limited,  owing  to  the  numerous 
social  engagements  in  which  Charmian  and  Alston  Lake 
involved  him — an  event  took  place  which  had  led  directly 
to  the  packing  of  those  boxes  which  now  stood  ready  for  a 
journey.  Jacob  Crayford  reappeared  in  London  after  putting 
Europe  through  his  sieve.  And  Claude  was  introduced  to 
him  by  Alston  Lake,  who  insisted  on  his  patron  hearing 
Claude's  song. 

Mr.  Crayford  did  not  care  very  much  about  the  song.  A 
song  was  not  a  big  proposition,  and  he  was  accustomed  to 
think  in  operas.  But  his  fondness  for  Lake,  and  Lake's 

14 


210        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

boyish  enthusiasm  for  Claude,  led  him  to  pay  some  attention 
to  the  latter.  He  was  a  busy  man  and  did  not  waste  much 
time.  But  he  was  a  sharp  man  and  a  man  on  the  look-out  for 
talent.  Apparently  this  Claude  Heath  had  some  talent,  not 
much  developed  perhaps  as  yet.  But  then  he  was  young. 
In  Claude's  appearance  and  personality  there  was  something 
arresting.  "Looks  as  if  there  might  be  something  there," 
was  Crayford's  silent  comment.  And  then  he  admired  Char- 
mian  and  thought  her  "darned  cute."  He  openly  chaffed 
her  on  her  careful  silence  about  her  husband's  profession 
when  they  had  met  at  Mrs.  Shiffney's.  "So  you  wanted  to 
know  the  great  fighter,  did  you?"  he  said,  pulling  at  the 
little  beard  with  a  nervous  hand,  and  twitching  his  eyebrows. 
"And  it  he  hadn't  happened  to  have  one  opera  house,  and  to 
be  thinking  about  running  up  another,  much  you'd  have  cared 
about  his  fighting." 

"My  husband  is  not  a  composer  of  operas,  Mr.  Crayford," 
observed  Charmian  demurely. 

From  Alston  Lake  had  come  the  urgent  advice  to  Claude 
to  try  his  hand  on  an  opera. 

Jacques  Sennier  and  his  wife,  fresh  from  their  triumphs 
in  America,  had  come  to  London  again  in  June.  The  Paradis 
Terrestre  had  been  revived  at  Covent  Garden,  and  its  success 
had  been  even  greater  than  before. 

"Claude,  you've  simply  got  to  write  an  opera!"  Lake  had 
said  one  night  in  his  studio. 

Charmian,  Claude,  and  he  had  all  been  at  Covent  Garden 
that  night,  and  had  dropped  in,  as  they  sometimes  did,  at 
the  studio  to  spend  an  hour  on  their  way  home.  Lake  loved 
the  studio,  and  if  there  were  any  question  of  his  going  either 
there  or  to  the  house  in  Kensington,  he  always  "plumped 
for  the  studio."  They  "sat  around"  now,  eating  sandwiches 
and  drinking  lemonade  and  whisky-and-soda,  and  discussing 
the  events  of  the  evening. 

"I  couldn't  possibly  write  an  opera,"  Claude  said. 

"Why  not?" 

"I  have  no  bent  toward  the  theater." 

Alston  Lake,   who   was   long-limbed,   very   blond,   clean- 


shaved,  with  gray  eyes,  extraordinarily  smooth  yellow  hair, 
and  short,  determined  and  rather  blunt  features,  stretched  out 
one  large  hand  to  the  cigar-box,  and  glanced  at  Charmian. 

"What  is  your  bent  toward?"  he  said,  in  his  strong  and 
ringing  baritone  voice. 

Claude's  forehead  puckered,  and  the  sudden  distressed  look, 
which  Mrs.  Mansfield  had  sometimes  noticed,  came  into  his  eyes. 

"Well —  '  he  began,  in  a  hesitating  voice.  "I  hardly 
know — now." 

"Now,  old  chap?" 

"I  mean  I  hardly  know." 

"Then  for  all  you  can  tell  it  may  be  toward  opera?"  said 
Alston  triumphantly. 

Charmian  touched  the  wreath  of  green  leaves  which  shone 
in  her  dark  hair.  Her  face  had  grown  more  decisive  of  late. 
She  looked  perhaps  more  definitely  handsome,  but  she  looked 
just  a  little  bit  harder.  She  glanced  at  her  husband,  glanced 
away,  and  lit  a  cigarette.  That  evening  she  had  again  seen 
Madame  Sennier,  had  noticed,  with  a  woman's  almost  miracu- 
lous sharpness,  the  crescendo  in  the  Frenchwoman's  formerly 
dominant  personality.  She  puffed  out  a  tiny  ring  of  pale 
smoke  and  said  nothing.  It  seemed  to  her  that  Alston  was 
doing  work  for  her. 

"I  don't  think  it  is,"  Claude  said,  after  a  pause.  "I'm 
twenty-nine,  and  up  to  now  I've  never  felt  impelled  to  write 
anything  operatic." 

"That's  probably  because  you  haven't  been  in  the  way  of 
meeting  managers,  opera  singers,  and  conductors.  Every 
man  wants  the  match  that  fires  him." 

"That's  just  what  I  think,"  said  Charmian. 

Claude  smiled.  In  the  recent  days  he  had  heard  so  much 
talk  about  music  and  musicians.  And  he  had  noticed  that 
Alston  and  his  wife  were  nearly  always  in  agreement. 

"What  was  the  match  that  fired  you,  Alston?"  he  asked, 
looking  at  the  big  lad — he  looked  little  more  than  a  lad — 
good-naturedly. 

"Well,  I  always  wanted  to  sing,  of  course.  But  I  think  it 
was  Crayford." 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

He  puffed  almost  furiously  at  his  cigar. 

"  Crayford's  a  marvellous  man.  He'll  lick  the  Metropolitan 
crowd  yet.  He's  going  to  make  me." 

"You  mean  you're  going  to  make  yourself?"  interrupted 
Claude. 

"Takes  two  to  do  it!" 

Again  he  looked  over  to  Charmian. 

"Without  Crayford  I  should  never  have  believed  I  could 
be  a  big  opera  singer.  As  it  is,  I  mean  to  be.  And,  what 
is  more,  I  know  I  shall  be.  Now,  Claude,  old  fellow,  don't 
get  on  your  hind  legs,  but  just  listen  to  me.  Every  man 
needs  help  when  he's  a  kid,  needs  somebody  who  knows — 
knows,  mind  you — to  put  him  in  the  right  way.  What  is 
wanted  nowadays  is  operatic  stuff,  first-rate  operatic  stuff. 
Now,  look  here,  I'm  going  to  speak  out  straight,  and  that's 
all  there  is  to  it.  I  wanted  Crayford  to  hear  your  big  things" 
— Claude  shifted  in  his  chair,  stretched  out  his  legs  and  drew 
them  up — "I  told  him  about  them  and  how  strong  they 
were.  'What  subjects  does  he  treat?'  he  said.  I  told  him. 
At  least,  I  began  to  tell  him.  'Oh,  Lord!'  he  said,  stopping 
me  on  the  nail — but  you  know  how  busy  he  is.  He  can't 
waste  time.  And  he's  out  for  the  goods,  you  know — 'Oh, 
Lord!'  he  said.  'Don't  bother  me  with  the  Bible.  The 
time  for  oratorio  has  gone  to  join  Holy  Moses!'  I  tried  to 
explain  that  your  stuff  was  no  more  like  old-fashioned  oratorio 
than  Chicago  is  like  Stratford-on-Avon,  but  he  wouldn't 
listen.  All  he  said  was,  'Gone  to  join  Holy  Moses,  my  boy! 
Tell  that  chap  Heath  to  bring  me  a  good  opera  and  I'll  make 
him  more  famous  than  Sennier.  For  I  know  how  to  run 
him,  or  any  man  that  can  produce  the  goods,  twice  as  well  as 
Sennier's  run.'  There,  old  chap!  I've  given  it  you  straight. 
Look  what  a  success  we've  had  with  the  song!" 

"And  /  found  him  that!"  Charmian  could  not  help  saying 
quickly. 

"Find  him  a  first-rate  libretto,  Mrs.  Charmian!  I'll  tell 
you  what,  I  know  a  lot  of  fellows  in  Paris  who  write.  Sup- 
pose you  and  I  run  over  to  Paris — " 

"Would  you  let  me,  Claudie?"  she  interrupted. 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        213 

"Oh!"  he  said,  laughing,  but  without  much  mirth.  "Do 
whatever  you  like,  my  children.  You  make  me  feel  as  if  I 
know  nothing  about  myself,  nothing  at  all." 

"Weren't  you  one  of  the  best  orchestral  pupils  at  the 
Royal  College?"  said  Alston.  "Didn't  you  win—?" 

"Go — go  to  Paris  and  bring  me  back  a  libretto!"  he  ex- 
claimed, assuming  a  mock  despair. 

He  did  not  reckon  with  Charmian's  determination.  He 
had  taken  it  all  as  a  kind  of  joke.  But  when,  at  the  end  of 
the  season,  he  suggested  a  visit  to  Cornwall  to  see  his  people, 
Charmian  said: 

"You  go!  And  I'll  take  Susan  Fleet  as  a  chaperon  and 
run  over  to  Paris  with  Alston  Lake." 

"What — to  find  the  libretto?  But  there's  no  one  in  Paris 
in  August." 

"Leave  that  to  us,"  she  answered  with  decision. 

Claude  still  felt  as  if  the  whole  thing  were  a  sort  of  joke. 
But  he  let  his  wife  go.  And  she  came  back  with  a  very  clever 
and  powerful  libretto,  written  by  a  young  Algerian  who  knew 
Arab  life  well,  and  who  had  served  for  a  time  with  the  Foreign 
Legion.  Claude  read  it  carefully,  then  studied  it  minutely. 
The  story  interested  him.  The  plot  was  strong.  There  were 
wonderful  opportunities  for  striking  scenic  effects.  But  the 
whole  thing  was  entirely  "out  of  his  line."  And  he  told 
Charmian  and  Lake  so. 

"It  would  need  to  be  as  Oriental  in  the  score  as  Louise  is 
French,"  he  said.  "And  what  do  I  know — " 

"Go  and  get  it!"  interrupted  Lake.  "Nothing  ties  you 
to  London.  Spend  a  couple  of  years  over  it,  if  you  like.  It 
would  be  worth  it.  And  Crayford  says  there's  going  to  be  a 
regular  'boom'  in  Eastern  things  in  a  year  or  two." 

"Now  how  can  he  possibly  know  that?"  said  Claude. 

"My  boy,  he  does  know  it.  Crayford  knows  everything. 
He  looks  ahead,  by  Jove!  Fools  don't  know  what  the  people 
want.  Clever  men  do  know  what  they  want.  And  Crayfords 
know  what  they're  going  to  want." 

And  now  the  Heath's  boxes  were  actually  packed,  and  the 
great  case  of  scores  stood  in  the  hall  in  Berkeley  Square. 


214        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

As  Claude  looked  at  it  he  felt  like  one  who  had  burnt  his 
boats. 

Ever  since  he  had  decided  that  he  would  "have  a  try  at 
opera,"  as  Alston  Lake  expressed  it,  he  had  been  studying 
orchestration  assiduously  in  London  with  a  brilliant  master. 
For  nearly  three  months  he  had  given  all  his  working  time  to 
this.  His  knowledge  of  orchestration  had  already  been  con- 
siderable, even  remarkable.  But  he  wanted  to  be  sure  of  all 
the  most  modern  combinations.  He  had  toiled  with  a  per- 
tinacity, a  tireless  energy  that  had  astonished  his  "coach." 
But  the  driving  force  behind  him  was  not  what  it  had  been 
when  he  worked  alone  in  the  long  and  dark  room,  with  the 
dim  oil-paintings  and  the  orange-colored  curtains.  Then  he 
had  been  sent  on  by  the  strange  force  which  lives  and  per- 
petually renews  itself  in  a  man's  own  genius,  when  he  is  at 
the  work  he  was  sent  into  the  world  to  do.  Now  he  had 
scourged  himself  on  by  a  self-consciously  exercised  force  of 
will.  He  had  set  his  teeth.  He  had  called  upon  all  the 
dogged  pertinacity  which  a  man  must  have  if  he  is  to  be 
really  a  man  among  men.  Always,  far  before  him  in  the 
distance  which  must  some  day  be  gained,  gleamed  the  will-o'- 
the-wisp  lamp  of  success.  He  had  an  object  now,  which  must 
never  be  forgotten,  success.  What  had  been  his  object  when 
he  toiled  in  Mullion  House?  He  had  scarcely  known  that  he 
had  any  object  in  working — in  giving  up.  But,  if  he  had,  it 
was  surely  the  thing  itself.  He  had  desired  to  create  a  certain 
thing.  Once  the  thing  was  created  he  had  passed  on  to  some- 
thing else. 

Sometimes  now  he  looked  back  on  that  life  of  his,  and  it 
seemed  very  strange,  very  far  away.  A  sort  of  halo  of  faint 
and  caressing  light  surrounded  it;  but  it  seemed  a  thing 
rather  vague,  almost  a  thing  of  dreams.  The  life  he  was 
entering  now  was  not  vague,  nor  dreamlike,  but  solid,  firmly 
planted,  rooted  in  intention.  He  read  the  label  attached  to 
the  case  of  scores:  "Claude  Heath,  passenger  to  Algiers,  via 
Marseilles."  And  he  could  scarcely  believe  he  was  really 
going. 

As  he  looked  up  from  the  label  he  saw  the  post  lying  on 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        215 

the  hall-table.  Two  letters  for  him,  and — ah,  some  more 
cuttings  from  Romeike  and  Curtice.  He  was  quite  accus- 
tomed to  getting  those  now.  "That  dreadful  Miss  Gretch" 
had  infected  others  with  her  disease  of  comment,  and  his 
name  was  fairly  often  in  the  papers. 

"Mr.  and  Mrs.  Claude  Heath  are  about  to  leave  their 
charming  and  artistic  house  in  Kensington  and  to  take  up 
their  residence  near  Algiers.  It  is  rumored  that  there  is  an 
interesting  reason,  not  wholly  unconnected  with  things 
operatic,  for  their  departure,  etc." 

Charmian  had  been  at  work  even  in  these  last  busy  days. 
Her  energy  was  wonderful.  Claude  considered  it  for  a 
moment  as  he  stood  in  the  hall.  Energy  and  will,  she  had 
both,  and  she  had  made  him  feel  them.  She  had  become 
quite  a  personage.  She  was  certainly  a  very  devoted  wife, 
devoted  to  what  she  called,  and  what  no  doubt  everyone  else 
would  call,  his  "  interests."  And  yet — and  yet — 

Claude  knew  that  he  did  not  love  her.  He  admired  her. 
He  had  become  accustomed  to  her.  He  felt  her  force.  He 
knew  he  ought  to  be  very  grateful  to  her  for  many  things. 
She  was  devoted  to  him.  Or  was  she — was  she  not  rather 
devoted  to  his  "interests,"  to  those  nebulous  attendants 
that  hover  round  a  man  like  shadows  in  the  night?  How 
would  it  be  in  Algiers  when  they  were  quite  alone  together? 

He  sighed,  looked  once  more  at  the  label,  and  went  upstairs. 

He  found  Mrs.  Mansfield  there  alone,  reading  beside  the  fire. 

She  had  not  been  very  well,  and  her  face  looked  thinner  than 
usual,  her  eyes  more  intense  and  burning.  She  was  dressed 
in  white. 

As  Claude  came  in  she  laid  down  her  book  and  turned  to 
him.  He  thought  she  looked  very  sad. 

"  Charmian  still  out,  Madre?"  he  asked. 

"Yes.     Dressmakers  hold  hands  with  eternity,  I  think." 

"Tailors  don't,  thank  Heaven!" 

He  sat  down  on  the  other  side  of  the  fire,  and  they  were 
both  silent  for  a  moment. 

"You're  coming  to  see  us  in  spring?"  Claude  said,  lifting 
his  head. 


216        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

Sadness  seemed  to  flow  from  Mrs.  Mansfield  to  him,  to  be 
enveloping  him.  He  disliked,  almost  feared,  silence  just  then. 

"If  you  want  me." 

"If!" 

"I'm  not  quite  sure  that  you  will." 

Their  eyes  met.  Claude  looked  away.  Did  he  really  wish 
Madre  to  come  out  into  that  life?  Had  she  pierced  down  to 
a  reluctance  in  him  of  which  till  that  moment  he  had  scarcely 
been  aware? 

"We  shall  see,"  she  said,  more  lightly.  "Susan  Fleet  is 
going  out,  I  know,  after  Christmas,  when  Adelaide  Shiffney 
goes  off  to  India." 

"Yes,  she  has  promised  Charmian  to  come.  And  Lake 
will  visit  us  too." 

"Naturally.  Will  you  see  him  in  Paris  on  your  way 
through?" 

"Oh,  yes!    What  an  enthusiast  he  is!" 

Claude  sighed. 

"I  shall  miss  you,  Madre,"  he  said,  somberly  almost.  "I 
am  so  accustomed  to  be  within  reach  of  you." 

"I  hope  you  will  miss  me  a  little.  But  the  man  who  never 
leans  heavily  never  falls  when  the  small  human  supports 
we  all  use  now  and  then  are  withdrawn.  You  love  me,  I 
know.  But  you  don't  need  me." 

"Then  do  you  think  I  never  lean  heavily?" 

"Do  you?" 

He  moved  rather  uneasily. 

"I — I  don't  know  that  it  is  natural  to  me  to  lean.  Still — 
still  we  sometimes  do  things,  get  into  the  habit  of  doing  things, 
which  are  not  natural  to  us." 

"That's  a  mistake,  I  think,  unless  we  do  them  from  a  fine 
motive,  from  unselfishness,  for  instance,  from  the  motive  of 
honor,  or  to  strengthen  our  wills  drastically.  But  I  believe 
we  have  been  provided  with  a  means  of  knowing  how  far  we 
ought  to  pursue  a  course  not  wholly  natural  to  us." 

"What  means?" 

"If  the  at  first  apparently  unnatural  thing  soon  seems 
quite  natural  to  us,  if  it  becomes,  as  it  were,  part  of  ourselves, 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        217 

if  we  can  incorporate  it  with  ourselves,  then  we  have  probably 
made  a  step  upward.  But  if  it  continues  to  seem  persistently 
unnatural,  I  think  we  are  going  downward.  I  am  one  of 
those  who  believe  in  the  power  called  conscience.  But  I 
expect  you  knew  that  already.  Here  is  Charmian!" 

Charmian  came  in,  flushed  with  the  cold  outside,  her  long 
eyes  sparkling,  her  hands  deep  in  a  huge  muff. 

"Sitting  with  Madre,  Claude!" 

"I  have  been  telling  her  we  expect  her  to  come  to  us  in 
spring." 

"Of  course  we  do.  That's  settled.  I  found  these  cuttings 
in  the  hall." 

She  drew  one  hand  out  of  her  muff.  It  was  holding  the 
newspaper  slips  of  Romeike  and  Curtice. 

"They  find  out  almost  everything  about  us,"  she  said, 
in  her  clear,  slightly  authoritative  voice.  "  But  we  shall  soon 
escape  from  them.  A  year — two  years,  perhaps — out  of  the 
world!  It  will  be  a  new  experience  for  me,  won't  it,  Madretta?' 

"Quite  new." 

The  expression  in  her  eyes  changed  as  she  looked  at  Claude. 

"And  I  shall  see  the  island  with  you." 

"The  island?"  he  said. 

"Don't  you  remember — the  night  I  came  back  from  Algiers, 
and  you  dined  here  with  Madre  and  me,  I  told  you  about  a 
little  island  I  had  seen  in  an  Algerian  garden?  I  remember 
the  very  words  I  said  that  night,  about  the  little  island  wanting 
me  to  make  people  far  away  feel  it,  know  it.  But  I  couldn't, 
because  I  had  no  genius  to  draw  in  color,  and  light,  and  sound, 
and  perfume,  and  to  transform  them,  and  give  them  out  again, 
better  than  the  truth,  because  /  was  added  to  them.  Don't 
you  remember,  Claudie?" 

"Yes,  now  I  remember." 

"  You  are  going  to  do  that  where  I  could  not  do  it." 

Claude  glanced  at  Mrs.  Mansfield. 

And  again  he  felt  as  if  he  were  enveloped  by  a  sadness  that 
flowed  from  her. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

CHARMIAN  and  her  husband  went  first  to  the  H6tel  St. 
George  at  Mustapha  Superieur  above  Algiers.  But  they 
had  no  intention  of  remaining  there  for  more  than  two  or 
three  weeks.  Claude  could  not  compose  happily  in  a  hotel. 
And  they  wished  to  be  economical.  As  Claude  had  not  yet 
given  up  the  studio,  they  still  had  expenses  in  London.  And 
the  house  in  Kensington  Square  was  only  let  on  a  six  months' 
lease.  They  had  no  money  to  throw  away. 

During  the  first  few  days  after  their  arrival  Claude  did  not 
think  of  work.  He  tried  to  give  himself  up  to  the  new  impres- 
sions that  crowded  in  upon  him  in  Northern  Africa.  Charmian 
eagerly  acted  as  cicerone.  That  spoiled  things  sometimes  for 
Claude,  but  he  did  not  care  to  say  so  to  his  wife.  So  he  sent 
that  secret  to  join  the  many  secrets  which,  carefully  kept  from 
her,  combined  to  make  a  sort  of  subterranean  life  running  its 
course  in  the  darkness  of  his  soul. 

In  addition  to  being  a  cicerone  Charmian  was  a  woman  full 
of  purpose.  And  she  was  seldom  able,  perhaps  indeed  she 
feared,  to  forget  this.  The  phantom  of  Madame  Sennier, 
white-faced,  red-haired,  determined,  haunted  her.  She  and 
Claude  were  not  as  other  people,  who  had  come  from  England 
or  elsewhere  to  Algiers.  They  had  an  "object."  They  must 
not  waste  their  time.  Claude  was  to  be  "steeped"  in  the 
atmosphere  necessary  for  the  production  of  his  Algerian  opera. 
Almost  a  little  anxiously,  certainly  with  a  definiteness  rather 
destructive,  Charmian  began  the  process  of  "steeping"  her 
husband. 

She  thought  that  she  concealed  her  intention  from  Claude. 
She  had  sufficient  knowledge  of  his  character  to  realize  that  he 
might  be  worried  if  he  thought  that  he  was  being  taken  too 
firmly  in  hand.  She  honestly  wished  to  be  delicate  with  him, 
even  to  be  very  subtle.  But  she  was  so  keenly,  so  incessantly 

218 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        219 

alive  to  the  reason  of  their  coming  to  Africa,  she  was  so  deter- 
mined that  success  should  result  from  their  coming,  that  pur- 
pose, as  it  were,  oozed  out  of  her.  And  Claude  was  sensitive. 
He  felt  it  like  a  cloud  gathering  about  him,  involving  him  to 
his  detriment.  Sometimes  he  was  on  the  edge  of  speaking 
of  it  to  Charmian.  Sometimes  he  was  tempted  to  break 
violently  away  from  all  his  precautions,  to  burst  out  from 
secrecy,  and  to  liberate  his  soul. 

But  a  voice  within  him  held  him  back.  It  whispered:  "It 
is  too  late  now.  You  should  have  done  it  long  ago  when  you 
were  first  married,  when  first  she  began  to  assert  herself  in 
your  art  life." 

And  he  kept  silence. 

Perhaps  if  he  had  been  thoroughly  convinced  of  the  nature 
of  Charmian's  love  for  him,  he  would  even  now  have  spoken. 
But  he  could  not  banish  from  him  grievous  doubts  as  to  the 
quality  of  her  affection. 

She  devoted  herself  to  him.  She  was  concentrated  upon 
him,  too  concentrated  for  his  peace.  She  was  ready  to  give 
up  things  for  him,  as  she  had  just  given  up  her  life  and  her 
friends  in  England.  But  why?  Was  it  because  she  loved  him, 
the  man?  Or  was  there  another — a  not  completely  hidden 
reason  ? 

Charmian  and  he  went  together  to  see  the  little  island.  The 
owner  of  the  garden  in  which  it  stood,  with  its  tiny  lake  around 
it,  was  absent  in  England.  The  old  Arab  house  was  closed. 
But  the  head  gardener,  a  Frenchman,  who  had  spent  a  long  life 
in  Algeria,  remembered  Charmian,  and  begged  her  to  wander 
wherever  she  pleased.  She  took  Claude  to  the  edge  of  the  lake, 
and  drew  him  down  beside  her  on  a  white  seat. 

And  presently  she  said: 

"  Claudie,  it  was  here  I  first  knew  I  should  marry  you." 

Claude,  who  had  been  looking  in  silence  at  the  water,  the 
palm,  and  the  curving  shores  covered  with  bamboos,  flowering 
shrubs,  and  trees,  turned  on  the  seat  and  looked  at  her. 

"  Knew  that  you  would  marry  me!"  he  said. 

Something  in  his  eyes  almost  startled  her. 

"I  mean  I  felt  as  if  Fate  meant  to  unite  us." 


220        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

He  still  gazed  at  her  with  the  strange  expression  in  his  eyes, 
an  expression  which  made  her  feel  almost  uneasy. 

"Something  here" — she  almost  faltered,  called  on  her  will, 
and  continued — "  something  here  Deemed  to  tell  me  that  I 
should  come  here  some  day  with  you.  Wasn't  it  strange?" 

Well,  yes,  I  suppose  it  was,"  he  answered. 

She  thought  his  voice  sounded  insincere. 

"  I  almost  wonder,"  he  added,  "that  you  did  not  suggest 
our  coming  here  for  our  honeymoon." 

"I  thought  of  it.     I  wanted  to." 

"Then  why  didn't  you?" 

"  I  felt  as  if  the  right  time  had  not  come,  as  if  I  had  to  wait." 

"And  now  the  right  time  has  come?" 

"Yes,  now  it  has  come." 

She  tried  to  speak  with  energy.  But  her  voice  sounded 
doubtful.  That  curious  look  in  his  eyes  had  filled  her  with  an 
unwonted  indecision,  had  troubled  her  spirit. 

The  old  gardener,  who  had  white  whiskers  and  narrow  blue 
eyes,  came  down  the  path  under  the  curving  pergola,  carrying 
a  bunch  of  white  and  red  roses  in  his  earthy  hand. 

He  presented  it  to  Charmian  with  a  bow.  A  young  Arab, 
who  helped  in  the  garden,  showed  for  a  moment  among  the 
shrubs  on  the  hillside.  Claude  saw  him,  followed  him  with 
the  eyes  of  one  strange  in  Africa  till  he  was  hidden,  watched 
for  his  reappearance.  Charmian  got  up.  The  gardener  spoke 
in  a  hoarse  voice,  telling  her  something  about  water-plants 
and  blue  lilies,  of  which  there  were  some  in  the  garden,  and  of 
which  he  seemed  very  proud.  She  glanced  at  Claude,  then 
walked  a  few  steps  with  the  old  man  and  began  to  talk  with 
him. 

It  seemed  to  her  that  Claude  had  fallen  into  a  dream. 

That  day,  when  Charmian  rejoined  Claude,  she  said: 

"Old  Robert  has  spoken  to  me  of  a  villa." 

"Old  Robert!" 

"The  gardener.  We  are  intimate  friends.  He  has  told 
me  a  thousand  things  about  Algeria,  his  life  in  the  army,  his 
family.  But  what  interests  me — us — is  that  he  knows  of  a 
villa  to  be  let  by  the  year,  Djenan-el-Maqui.  It  is  old  but  in 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        221 

good  repair,  pure  Arab  in  style,  so  he  says,  and  only  eighty 
pounds  a  year.  Of  course  it  is  quite  small.  But  there  is  a 
garden.  And  it  is  only  some  ten  or  twelve  minutes  from  here 
in  the  best  part  of  Mustapha  Inferieur.  Shall  we  go  and  look 
at  it  now?" 

"Isn't  it  rather  late?" 

"Then  to-morrow,"  she  said  quickly. 

"Yes,  let  us  go  to-morrow." 

Djenan-el-Maqui  proved  to  be  suited  to  the  needs  of  Char- 
mian  and  Claude,  and  it  charmed  them  both  by  its  strangeness 
and  beauty.  It  lay  off  the  high  road,  to  the  left  of  the  Boule- 
vard Brou,  a  little  way  down  the  hill;  and  though  there  were 
many  villas  near  it,  and  from  its  garden  one  could  look  over 
the  town,  and  see  cavalry  exercising  on  the  Champs  de  Manoe- 
uvres, which  shows  like  a  great  brown  wound  in  the  fairness  of 
the  city,  it  suggested  secrecy,  retirement,  and  peace,  as  only 
old  Oriental  houses  can.  Around  it  was  a  high  white  wall, 
above  which  the  white  flat-roofed  house  showed  itself,  its 
serene  line  broken  by  two  tiny  white  cupolas  and  by  one 
upstanding  and  lonely  chamber  built  on  the  roof.  On 
passing  through  a  doorway,  which  was  closed  by  a  strong 
wooden  door,  the  Heaths  found  themselves  in  a  small  paved 
courtyard,  which  was  roofed  with  bougainvillea,  and  pro- 
vided with  stone  benches  and  a  small  stone  table.  The  sun 
seemed  to  drip  through  the  interstices  of  the  bright-colored 
ceiling  and  made  warm  patches  on  the  worn  gray  stone.  The 
house,  with  its  thick  white  walls,  and  windows  protected 
by  grilles,  confronted  them,  holding  its  many  secrets. 

"We  must  have  it,  Claude,"  Charmian  almost  whispered. 

"But  we  haven't  even  seen  it!"  he  retorted,  smiling. 

"I  know  it  will  do." 

She  was  right.  Soon  Claude  loved  it  even  more  than  she 
did;  loved  its  mysterious  pillared  drawing-room  with  the 
small  white  arches,  the  faint-colored  and  ancient  Moorish 
tiles,  the  divans  strewn  with  multi-colored  cushions,  the 
cabinets  and  tables  of  lacquer  work,  and  the  low-set  windows 
about  which  the  orange-hued  venusta  hung;  the  gallery 
running  right  round  it  from  which  the  few  small  bedrooms 


222        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

opened  by  low  black  doors;  the  many  nooks  and  recesses 
where,  always  against  a  background  of  colored  tiles,  more 
divans  and  tiny  coffee  tables  suggested  repose  and  the  quiet 
of  dreaming.  He  delighted  in  the  coolness  and  the  curious 
silence  of  this  abode,  which  threw  the  mind  far  back  into  a  past 
when  the  Arab  was  a  law  unto  himself  and  to  his  household, 
when  he  dreamed  in  what  he  thought  full  liberty,  when  Europe 
concerned  him  not.  And  most  of  all  he  liked  his  own  work- 
room, though  this  was  an  addition  to  the  house,  and  had  been 
made  by  a  French  painter  who  had  been  a  former  tenant. 
This  was  the  chamber  built  upon  the  roof,  which  formed 
a  flat  terrace  in  front  of  it,  commanding  a  splendid  view  over 
the  town,  the  bay,  Cap  Matifou,  and  the  distant  range  of  the 
Atlas.  Moorish  tiles  decorated  the  walls  to  a  height  of  some 
three  feet,  tiles  purple,  white,  and  a  watery  green.  Above 
them  was  a  cream-colored  distemper.  At  the  back  of  the 
room,  opposite  to  the  French  window  which  opened  on  to 
the  roof,  was  an  arched  recess  some  four  feet  narrower  than 
the  rest  of  the  room,  ornamented  with  plaques  of  tiles,  and 
delicate  lacelike  plaster-work  above  low  windows  which  came 
to  within  a  foot  and  a  half  of  the  floor.  A  brass  Oriental 
lamp  with  white,  green,  and  yellow  beads  hung  in  the  archway. 
An  old  carpet  woven  at  Kairouan  before  the  time  of  aniline 
dyes  was  spread  over  the  floor.  White  and  green  curtains, 
and  furniture  covered  in  white  and  green,  harmonized  with 
the  tiles  and  the  white  and  cream  plaster.  Through  the  win- 
dows could  be  seen  dark  cypress  trees,  the  bright  blue  of  the  sea, 
the  white  and  faint  red  of  the  crowding  houses  of  the  town. 

It  was  better  than  the  small  chamber  in  Kensington  Square, 
better  than  the  studio  in  Renwick  Place. 

"I  ought  to  be  able  to  work  here!"  Claude  thought. 

The  small  inner  Arab  court,  with  its  fountain,  its  marble 
basin  containing  three  gold-fish,  its  roofed-in  coffee-chamber, 
the  little  dining-room  separated  from  the  rest  of  the  house, 
pleased  them  both.  And  Charmian  took  the  garden,  which 
ran  rather  wild,  and  was  full  of  geraniums,  orange  trees,  fig 
trees,  ivy  growing  over  old  bits  of  wall,  and  untrained  rose 
bushes,  into  her  special  charge. 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        223 

Their  household  seemed  likely  to  be  a  success.  As  cook 
they  had  an  astonishingly  broad-bosomed  Frenchwoman, 
whom  they  called  "La  Grande  Jeanne,"  and  who  immediately 
settled  down  like  a  sort  of  mother  of  the  house;  a  tall,  tbin, 
and  birdlike  Frenchman  named  Pierre,  who  had  been  a 
soldier,  and  then  for  several  years  a  servant  at  the  Trappist 
Monastery  at  Staoueli;  Charmian's  maid;  and  an  Arab  boy 
whom  everyone  called  Bibi,  and  who  alternated  between  a 
demeanor  full  of  a  graceful  and  apparently  fatalistic  languor, 
and  fits  of  almost  monkeylike  gaiety  and  mischief  which  Pierre 
strove  to  repress.  A  small  Arab  girl,  dressed  like  a  little 
woman  In  flowing  cotton  or  muslin,  with  clinking  bracelets  and 
anklets,  charms  on  her  thin  bosom  and  scarlet  and  yellow  silk 
handkerchiefs  on  her  braided  hair,  was  also  perpetually  about 
the  house  and  the  courtyard.  Neither  Charmian  nor  Claude 
ever  quite  understood  what  had  first  led  little  Fatma  there. 
She  was  some  relation  of  Bibi's,  had  always  known  La  Grande 
Jeanne,  and  seemed  in  some  vague  way  to  belong  to  the 
ancient  house.  Very  soon  they  would  have  missed  her  had 
she  gone.  She  was  gentle,  dignified,  eternally  picturesque. 
The  courtyard  roofed  in  by  the  bougainvillea  would  have 
seemed  sad  and  deserted  without  her. 

Charmian  had  come  away  from  England  with  enthusiasm, 
intent  on  the  future.  Till  their  departure  life  had  been  busy 
and  complicated.  She  had  had  a  thousand  things  to  do, 
quantities  of  people  to  see;  friends  to  whom  she  must  say 
good-bye,  acquaintances,  dressmakers,  modistes,  tailors. 
Claude  had  been  busy,  too.  He  had  been  working  at  his 
orchestration  for  hours  every  day.  Charmian  had  never  inter- 
rupted him.  It  was  her  r6le  to  keep  him  to  his  work  if  he 
showed  signs  of  flagging.  But  he  had  never  shown  such  signs. 
London  had  hummed  around  them  with  its  thousand  suggestive 
voices;  hinting,  as  if  without  intention  and  because  it  could 
not  do  otherwise,  at  a  myriad  interests,  activities,  passions. 
The  great  city  had  kept  their  minds,  and  even,  so  it  seemed  to 
Charmian  and  to  Claude  sometimes  now  in  Africa,  their  hearts 
occupied.  Now  they  confronted  a  solitary  life  in  a  strange 
country,  in  a  milieu  where  they  had  no  friends,  no  acquaint- 


224        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

ances  even,  except  two  or  three  casually  met  in  the  Hotel  St. 
George,  and  the  British  Consul-General  and  his  wife,  who  had 
been  to  call  on  them. 

Quietude,  a  curious  sort  of  emptiness,  seemed  to  descend 
upon  them  during  those  first  days  in  the  villa.  Even  Charmian 
felt  rather  "flat."  She  was  conscious  of  the  romance  of  their 
situation  in  this  old  Arab  house,  looking  out  over  trees  to  the 
bright-blue  sea.  But  when  she  had  carefully  arranged  and  re- 
arranged the  furniture,  settled  on  the  places  for  the  books, 
put  flowers  in  the  vases,  and  had  several  talks  with  Jeanne, 
she  was  acutely  aware  of  a  certain  vagueness,  a  certain  almost 
overpowering  oddity.  She  felt  rather  like  a  person  who  has 
done  in  a  great  hurry  something  she  did  not  really  want  to  do, 
and  who  understands  her  true  feeling  abruptly. 

In  the  course  of  years  she  had  become  so  accustomed  to  the 
routine  of  a  full  life,  a  life  charged  with  incessant  variety  of 
interests,  occupations,  amusements,  a  life  offering  day  after 
day  "something  to  look  forward  to,"  and  teeming  with  people 
whom  she  knew,  that  she  now  confronted  weeks,  months  even, 
of  solitude  with  Claude  almost  in  fear.  He  had  his  work.  She 
had  never  been  a  worker  in  what  she  considered  the  real  sense, 
that  is  a  creator  striving  to  "arrive."  She  conceived  of  such 
work  as  filling  the  worker's  whole  life.  She  knew  it  must  be 
so,  for  she  had  read  many  lives  of  great  men.  Claude,  there- 
fore, had  his  life  in  Mustapha  filled  up  to  the  brim  for  him. 
But  what  was  she  going  to  do? 

Claude,  on  his  part,  was  striving  to  recapture  in  Africa  the 
desire  for  popularity,  the  longing  for  fame,  the  wish  to  give 
people  what  they  wanted  of  him  in  art,  which  he  had  some- 
times felt  of  late  in  London.  But  now  there  were  about  him 
no  people  who  knew  anything  of  his  art  or  of  him.  The  cries 
of  cultivated  London  had  faded  out  of  his  ears.  In  Africa  he 
felt  strongly  the  smallness  of  that  world,  the  insignificance  of 
every  little  world.  His  true  and  indifferent  self  seemed  to 
gather  strength.  He  fought  it.  He  felt  that  it  would  be  a  foe 
to  the  contemplated  opera.  He  wished  Alston  Lake  were 
with  them,  or  someone  who  would  "  wake  him  up."  Charmian, 
in  her  present  condition,  lacked  the  force  which  he  had  often 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        225 

felt  in  London,  a  force  which  had  often  secretly  irritated  and 
troubled  him,  but  which  had  not  been  without  tonic  properties. 

With  very  great  difficulty,  with  a  heavy  reluctance  of  which 
he  was  ashamed,  he  exerted  his  will,  he  forced  himself  to  begin 
the  appointed  task.  With  renewed  and  anxious  attention  he 
re-studied  the  libretto.  He  laid  out  his  music-paper,  closed  his 
door,  and  hoped  for  a  stirring  of  inspiration,  or  at  least  of  some 
power  within  him  which  would  enable  him  to  make  a  start.  By 
experience  he  knew  that  once  he  was  in  a  piece  of  work  some- 
thing helped  him,  often  drove  him.  He  must  get  to  that 
something.  He  recalled  those  dreadful  first  days  in  Kensing- 
ton Square,  when  he  read  Carlyle's  French  Revolution  and 
sometimes  felt  criminal.  There  must  be  nothing  of  that  kind 
here.  And,  thank  Heaven,  this  was  not  Kensington  Square. 
Peace  and  beauty  were  here.  All  the  social  ties  were  broken. 
If  he  could  not  compose  an  opera  here  it  was  certain  that  he 
could  never  compose  one  anywhere.  As  inspiration  was  slow 
in  coming  he  began  to  write  almost  at  haphazard,  uncritically, 
carelessly.  "I  will  do  a  certain  amount  every  day,"  he  said 
to  himself,  "whether  I  feel  inclined  to  or  not." 

Inevitably,  as  the  days  went  by,  he  and  Charmian  grew 
more  at  ease  in,  more  accustomed  to,  the  new  way  of  life. 
They  fell  into  habits  of  living.  Claude  was  at  last  beginning 
to  "feel"  his  opera.  The  complete  novelty  of  his  task  puzzled 
him,  put  a  strain  on  his  nerves  and  his  brain.  But  at  the  same 
time  it  roused  perforce  his  intellectual  activities.  Even  the 
tug  at  his  will  which  he  was  obliged  frequently  to  give,  seemed 
to  strengthen  certain  fibers  of  his  intellect.  This  opera  was 
not  going  to  be  easy  in  its  coming.  But  it  must,  it  should  come ! 

Charmian  decided  to  take  up  a  course  of  reading  and  wrote 
to  Susan  Fleet,  who  was  in  London,  begging  her  to  send  out  a 
series  of  books  on  theosophical  practice  and  doctrine  suitable 
to  a  totally  ignorant  inquirer.  Charmian  chose  to  take  a 
course  of  reading  on  theosophy  simply  because  of  her  admira- 
tion and  respect  for  Susan  Fleet.  Ever  since  she  had  known 
Susan,  and  made  that  confession  to  her,  she  had  been  "going" 
to  read  something  about  the  creed  which  seemed  to  make 
Susan  so  happy  and  so  attractive.  But  she  had  never  found 
the  time.  At  length  the  opportunity  presented  itself. 

15 


226       THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

Susan  Fleet  sent  out  a  parcel  of  manuals  by  Annie  Besant 
and  Leadbeater,  among  them  The  Astral  Plane,  Reincarnation, 
Death — and  Ajter?  and  The  Seven  Principles  of  Man.  She 
also  sent  bigger  books  by  Sinnet,  Bjavatsky,  and  Steiner. 
But  she  advised  Charmian  to  begin  with  the  manuals,  and  to 
read  slowly,  and  only  a  little  at  a  time.  Susan  was  no  pro- 
pagandist, but  she  was  a  sensible  woman.  She  hated  "  scamp- 
ing." If  Charmian  were  in  earnest  she  had  best  be  put  in  the 
right  way.  The  letter  which  accompanied  the  books  was  long 
and  calmly  serious.  When  Charmian  had  read  it  she  felt 
almost  alarmed  at  the  gravity  of  the  task  which  she  had  chosen 
to  confront.  It  had  been  easy  to  have  energy  for  Claude  in 
London.  She  feared  it  would  be  less  easy  to  have  energy  for 
herself  in  Mustapha.  But  she  resolved  not  to  shrink  back  now. 
Rather  vaguely  she  imagined  that  through  theosophy  lay  the 
path  to  serenity  and  patience.  Just  now — indeed,  for  a  long 
time  to  come,  she  needed,  would  need  above  all  things,  patience. 
In  calm  must  be  made  the  long  preparations  for  that  which 
some  day  would  fill  her  life  and  Claude's  with  excitement,  with 
glory,  with  the  fever  of  fame.  For  the  first  time  she  really 
understood  something  of  the  renunciation  which  must  make  up 
so  large  a  part  of  every  true  artist's  life.  Sometimes  she  won- 
dered what  Madame  Sennier's  life  had  been  while  Jacques 
Sennier  was  composing  Le  Paradis  Terrestre,  how  long  he 
had  taken  in  the  creation  of  that  stupendous  success.  Then 
resolutely  she  turned  to  her  little  manuals. 

She  had  begun  with  The  Seven  Principles  of  Man.  The 
short  preface  had  attracted  her.  "Life  easier  to  bear — death 
easier  to  face."  If  theosophy  helped  men  and  women  to  the 
finding  of  that  its  value  was  surely  inestimable.  Charmian 
was  not  obsessed  by  any  dark  thoughts  of  death.  But  she  con- 
sidered that  she  knew  quite  well  the  weight  of  time's  burden 
in  life.  She  needed  help  to  make  the  waiting  easier.  For  some- 
times, when  she  was  sitting  alone,  the  prospect  seemed  almost 
intolerable.  The  crowded  Opera  House,  the  lights,  the  thunder 
of  applause,  the  fixed  attention  of  the  world — they  were  all  so 
far  away. 

Resolutely  she  read  The  Seven  Principles  of  Man. 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        227 

Then  she  dipped  into  Reincarnation  and  Death — and  After? 

Although  she  did  not  at  all  fully  understand  much  of  what 
she  read,  she  received  from  these  three  books  two  dominant 
impressions.  One  was  of  illimitable  vastness,  the  other  of  an 
almost  horrifying  smallness.  She  read,  re-read,  and,  for  the 
moment,  that  is  when  she  was  shut  in  alone  with  the  books, 
her  life  with  Claude  presented  itself  to  her  like  a  mote  in  space. 
Of  what  use  was  it  to  concentrate,  to  strive,  to  plan,  to  re- 
nounce, to  build  as  if  for  eternity,  if  the  soul  were  merely  a 
rapid  traveller,  passing  hurriedly  on  from  body  to  body,  as  a 
feverish  and  unsatisfied  being,  homeless  and  alone,  passes 
from  hotel  to  hotel?  Were  she  and  Claude  only  joined  to- 
gether for  a  moment?  She  tried  to  realize  thoroughly  the 
theosophical  attitude  of  mind,  to  force  herself  to  regard  her 
existence  with  Claude  from  the  theosophical  standpoint — as, 
say,  Mrs.  Besant  might,  probably  must,  regard  her  life  with 
anyone.  She  certainly  did  not  succeed  in  this  effort.  But 
she  attained  to  a  sort  of  nightmare  conception  of  the  futility 
of  passing  relations  with  other  hurrying  lives.  And  she  tried 
to  imagine  herself  alone  without  Claude  in  her  life. 

Instantly  her  mind  began  to  concern  itself  with  Claude's 
talent,  and  she  began  to  imagine  herself  without  her  present 
aim  in  her  life. 

One  day  while  she  was  doing  this  she  heard  the  distant 
sound  of  a  piano  above  her.  Claude  was  playing  over  a 
melody  which  he  had  just  composed  for  the  opening  scene  of 
the  opera.  Charmian  got  up,  went  to  the  window,  leaned  out, 
and  listened.  And  immediately  the  nightmare  sensation 
dropped  from  her.  She  was,  or  felt  as  if  she  were,  conscious 
of  permanence,  stability.  Her  connection  with  that  man 
above  her,  who  was  playing  upon  the  piano,  suddenly  seemed 
durable,  almost  as  if  it  would  be  everlasting.  Claude  was 
"  her  man,"  his  talent  belonged  to  her.  She  could  not  conceive 
of  herself  deprived  of  them,  of  her  life  without  them. 

Early  in  the  New  Year  the  Heaths  received  a  visit  from 
Armand  Gillier,  the  writer  of  Claude's  libretto.  He  had  come 
over  from  Paris  to  see  his  family,  who  lived  at  St.  Eugene. 
Charmian  had  met  him  in  Paris,  but  Claude  had  never  seen 


him,  though  he  had  corresponded  with  him,  and  sent  him  a 
cheque  of  £100  for  his  work. 

Armand  Gillier  was  a  small,  rather  square  built  man  of 
thirty-two,  with  a  very  polite  manner-and  a  decidedly  brusque 
mind.  His  face  was  handsome,  with  a  straight  nose,  strong 
jaw,  and  large,  widely  opened,  and  very  expressive  dark  eyes. 
A  vigorous  and  unusually  broad  moustache  curled  upward 
above  his  sensual  mouth.  And  the  dark  hair  which  closely 
covered  his  well-shaped  head  was  drenched  with  eau  de 
quinine. 

Gillier  was  not  a  gentleman.  His  father  was  a  small  vine- 
grower  and  cultivator,  who  had  been  rather  disgusted  by  the 
fugues  of  his  eldest  son,  but  who  was  now  resigned  to  the 
latter's  etranges  folies.  The  fact  that  Armand,  after  pre- 
posterously joining  the  Foreign  Legion,  and  then  preposter- 
ously leaving  it,  had  actually  been  paid  a  hundred  pounds  down 
for  a  piece  of  literary  work,  had  made  his  father  have  some 
hopes  of  him. 

When  he  arrived  at  Djenan-el-Maqui  Claude  was  at  work, 
and  Charmian  recieved  him.  She  was  delighted  to  have  such 
a  visitor.  Here  was  a  denizen  of  the  real  Bohemia,  and  one 
who,  by  the  strange  ties  of  ambition,  was  closely  connected 
with  Claude  and  herself.  She  sat  with  the  writer  in  the  cool 
and  secretive  drawing-room,  smoking  cigarettes  with  him,  and 
preparing  him  for  Claude. 

This  man  must  "fire"  Claude. 

Gillier  had  been  born  and  brought  up  in  Algeria.  All  that 
was  strange  to  the  Heaths  was  commonplace  to  him.  But  he 
had  an  original  and  forcible  mind  and  a  keen  sense  of  the 
workings  of  environment  and  circumstance  upon  humanity. 
At  first  he  was  very  polite  and  formal,  a  mere  bundle  of  good 
manners.  But  under  Charmian's  carefully  calculated  in- 
fluence, he  changed.  He  perhaps  guessed  what  her  object 
was,  guessed  that  success  for  him  might  be  involved  in  it. 
And,  suddenly  abandoning  his  formality,  he  exclaimed: 

"  Eh  bien,  madame!    And  of  what  nature  is  your  husband?" 

Charmian  looked  at  him  and  hesitated. 

"Is  he  bold,  strong,  fierce,  open-hearted?  Has  he  lived, 
loved,  and  suffered?  Or  is  he  gentle,  closed,  retiring,  subtle, 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        229 

morbid  perhaps?  Does  he  live  in  the  dreams  of  his  soul,  in  the 
twilight  of  his  beautiful  imaginings?" 

Lifting  his  rather  coarse  and  powerful  hands  to  his  mous- 
tache, he  pulled  at  the  upward-pointing  ends. 

"I  wish  to  know  this,"  he  exclaimed.  "Because  it  is 
important  for  me.  My  libretto  was  written  by  one  who  has 
lived,  and  the  man  who  sets  it  to  music  must  have  lived  also 
to  do  it  justice." 

There  was  a  fierceness,  characteristic  of  Algerians  of  a 
certain  class,  in  his  manner  now  that  he  had  got  rid  of  his  first 
formality. 

Charmian  felt  slightly  embarrassed.  At  that  moment  she 
hoped  strongly  that  her  husband  would  not  come  down.  For 
the  first  time  she  realized  the  gulf  fixed  between  Claude  and 
the  libretto  which  she  had  found  for  him.  But  he  must  bridge 
that  gulf  out  here.  She  looked  hard  at  this  short,  brusque,  and 
rather  violent  young  man.  Armand  Gillier  must  help  Claude 
to  bridge  that  gulf. 

"Take  another  cigarette.  I'll  tell  you  about  my  husband," 
she  said. 


CHAPTER  XX 

MRS  SHIFFNEY,  who  was  perpetually  changing  her 
mind  in  the  chase  after  happiness,  changed  it  about 
India.  After  all  the  preparations  had  been  made,  in- 
numerable gowns  and  hats  had  been  bought,  a  nice  party  had 
been  arranged,  and  the  yacht  had  been  "sent  round"  to  Naples, 
she  decided  that  she  did  not  want  to  go,  had  never  wanted  to 
go.  Whether  the  defection  of  a  certain  Spanish  ex-diplomat, 
who  was  to  have  been  among  the  guests,  had  anything  to  do 
with  her  sudden  dislike  of  "that  boresome  India,"  perhaps 
only  she  knew,  and  the  ex-diplomat  guessed.  The  whole 
thing  was  abruptly  given  up,  and  January  found  her  in  Gros- 
venor  Square,  much  disgusted  with  her  persecution  by  Fate, 
and  wondering  what  on  earth  was  to  become  of  her. 

In  such  crises  she  generally  sent  for  Susan  Fleet,  if  the 
theosophist  were  within  reach.  She  now  decided  to  telegraph 
to  Folkestone,  where  Susan  was  staying  in  lodgings  not  far 
from  the  house  of  dear  old  Mrs.  Simpkins.  Susan  replied  that 
she  would  come  up  on  the  following  day,  and  she  duly  arrived 
just  before  the  hour  of  lunch. 

She  found  Mrs.  Shiffney  dressed  to  go  out. 

"Oh,  Susan,  what  a  mercy  to  see  you!  We  are  going  to 
the  Ritz.  We  shall  be  by  ourselves.  I  want  you  to  advise  me 
what  to  do.  Things  have  got  so  mixed  up.  Is  the  motor 
there?" 

"Yes." 

"Come  along,  then." 

At  the  Ritz,  although  she  met  many  acquaintances.  Mrs. 
Shiffney  would  not  join  any  one  for  lunch  or  let  any  one 
join  her. 

"  Susan  and  I  have  important  matters  to  discuss,"  she  said, 
smiling. 

Her  face  and  manner  had  completely  changed  directly  she 
got  out  of  the  motor.  She  now  looked  radiant,  like  one  for 

230 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        231 

-whom  life  held  nothing  but  good  things.  And  all  the  time 
she  and  Susan  were  lunching  and  talking  she  preserved  a 
radiant  demeanor.  Her  reward  was  that  everyone  said  how 
handsome  Adelaide  Shiffney  was  looking.  She  even  succeeded 
in  continuing  to  look  handsome  when  she  found  that  Susan 
had  made  private  plans  for  the  immediate  future. 

"I've  promised  to  go  to  Algiers,"  Susan  said  over  the 
csujs  en  cocotte,  when  Mrs.  Shiffney  asked  what  was  to  be  done 
to  make  things  lively. 

"To  Algiers!  Why?  What  is  there  to  do  there?  You 
know  it  inside  out." 

"Scarcely  that.     I'm  going  to  stay  with  Charmian  Heath." 

Mrs.  Shiffney's  large  mouth  suddenly  looked  a  little  hard, 
though  her  general  expression  hardly  altered. 

"Oh!    Whereabouts  are  they?" 

"Up  at  Mustapha,  not  far  from  Mrs.  Graham." 

"They  say  he's  trying  to  write  an  opera.  Poor  fellow! 
The  very  last  thing  he  could  do,  I  should  think.  But  she 
pushes  him  on.  Since  that  song  of  his — I  forget  the  name, 
heart  something  or  other — her  head  has  been  completely 
turned  about  his  talent.  The  fact  is,  Susan,  Sennier's  sudden 
fame  has  turned  all  their  heads,  the  young  composers,  les 
jeunes,  you  know.  They  are  all  trying  to  write  operas.  In 
Paris  it's  too  absurd!  But  an  Englishman,  with  his  tempera- 
ment, too — Oliver  Cromwell  in  Harris  tweed! — she  must  be 
mad.  Of  course  even  if  he  ever  finishes  it  he  will  never  get  it 
produced." 

Susan  quietly  went  on  eating  her  eggs. 

"A  totally  unknown  man.  She  thinks  that  song  has  made 
him  quite  a  celebrity.  But  nobody  has  ever  heard  of 
him." 

"Nobody  had  ever  heard  of  Sennier  till  that  night  at 
Covent  Garden,"  observed  Susan,  lifting  a  glass  of  water 
to  her  lips. 

"Oh,  yes,  they  had!" 

Mrs.  Shiffney's  musical  passion  for  Sennier  often  led  her  to 
embroider  facts. 

"Among  the  people  who  matter  in  Paris  he  was  quite 
famous." 


232        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

"Oh,  I  didn't  know  that,"  said  Susan,  without  a  trace  of 
doubt  or  of  sarcasm. 

"How  could  you?  Besides,  Sennier  is  a  great  man,  the 
only  man  we  have,  in  fact.  So  you  were  going  to  stay  with 
the  Heaths?" 

"I  am  going.    I  promised  Charmian  Heath." 

"When?" 

"In  about  ten  days,  I  think.  My  mother  is  rather  unwell, 
only  a  bad  cold.  But  I  like  to  be  at  Folkestone  to  help  Mrs. 
Simpkins." 

"Susan,  what  an  extraordinary  person  you  are!" 

"Why?" 

"You  are.  But  you  are  so  extraordinary  that  I  could 
never  make  you  see  why.  Sandringham  and  Mrs.  Simpkins! 
There  is  no  one  like  you." 

She  branched  off  to  various  topics,  but  presently  returned 
to  the  Algerian  visit. 

"What  do  you  think  of  Charmian  Heath,  Susan — really 
think,  I  mean?  Do  you  care  for  her?" 

"Yes,  I  do." 

"Oh,  I  don't  mean  as  a  theosophist,  I  mean  as  a  human 
being." 

Susan  smiled.    "We  are  human  beings." 

"You  are  certainly.  But,  of  course,  I  know  you  embrace 
Charmian  Heath  with  your  universal  love,  just  as  you  em- 
brace me  and  Mrs.  Simpkins  and  the  King  and  the  crossing- 
sweeper  at  the  corner.  That  doesn't  interest  me.  I  wish 
to  know  whether  you  like  her  as  you  don't  like  me  and  the 
King  and  the  crossing-sweeper?" 

"  Charmian  Heath  and  I  are  good  friends.  I  am  interested 
in  her." 

"In  a  woman!" 

"  Greatly  because  she  is  a  woman." 

"I  know  you're  a  suffragette  at  heart!" 

They  talked  a  little  about  politics.  When  coffee  came, 
Mrs.  Shiffney  suddenly  said: 

"I'll  take  you  over  to  Algiers,  Susan." 

"But  you  don't  want  to  go  there." 

"It's  absurd  your  going  in  one  of  those  awful  steamers 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        233 

from  Marseilles  when  the  yacht  is  only  about  half  an  hour 
away." 

"Half  an  hour!    I  thought  she  was  at  Naples." 

"I  said  about  half  an  hour  on  purpose  to  be  accurate." 

"Really,  I  would  just  as  soon  take  the  steamer,"  said 
Susan. 

This  definite,  though  very  gentle,  resistance  to  her  suddenly 
conceived  project  decided  Mrs.  Shiffney.  If  Susan  genuinely 
wished  to  go  to  Algiers  by  the  public  steamer,  then  she  would 
have  to  go  on  the  yacht.  Mrs.  Shiffney  had  realized  from  the 
beginning  of  their  conversation  that  Susan  wished  to  go  to 
Algiers  alone.  There  had  been  something  in  the  tone  of  her 
voice,  in  her  expression,  her  quiet  manner,  which  had  con- 
vinced Mrs.  Shiffney  of  that.  Her  curiosity  was  awake,  and 
something  else. 

"Susan  dear,  you  must  allow  me  to  take  care  of  you  as 
far  as  Algiers,"  she  said.  "If  you  don't  want  me  there  I'll 
just  put  you  ashore  on  the  beach,  near  Cap  Matifou  or  some- 
where, and  leave  you  there  with  your  trunks.  You  are  an 
eccentric,  but  that's  no  reason  why  you  shouldn't  have  a 
comfortable  voyage." 

"Very  well.  It's  very  kind  of  you,  Adelaide,"  Susan 
returned,  without  a  trace  of  vexation. 

That  very  day  Mrs.  Shiffney  telegraphed  to  the  captain 
of  the  yacht  to  bring  her  round  to  Marseilles.  In  the  evening 
Susan  Fleet  returned  to  Folkestone. 

Mrs.  Shiffney  did  not  intend  to  make  the  journey  alone 
with  Susan,  and  to  be  left  "in  the  air"  at  Algiers.  She  must 
get  a  man  or  two.  After  a  few  minutes'  thought  she  sent  a 
message  to  Max  Elliot  asking  him  to  look  in  upon  her.  When 
he  came  she  invited  him  to  join  the  party. 

"  You  must  come,"  she  said.  "  Only  ten  days  or  so.  Surely 
you  can  get  away.  And  you'll  see  your  protege,  Mr.  Heath. 

"My  protege!" 

"Well,  you  were  the  first  to  discover  him." 

"But  he's  impossible.  A  charming  fellow  with  undoubted 
talent,  but  so  bearish  about  his  music.  I  gave  it  up,  as  you 
know,  though  I'm  always  the  Heaths'  very  good  friend." 

"Well,  but  his  song?" 


234       THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

"One  song!  What's  that?  And  his  wife  made  him 
compose  it.  Nobody  has  ever  heard  his  really  fine  work, 
his  Te  Deum,  and  his  settings  of  sacred  words." 

"His  wife  and  mother  have,  I  believe." 

"His  wife — yes.  And  she  will  take  care  no  one  else  ever 
does  hear  them  now." 

"Why?" 

Max  Elliot  looked  at  Mrs.  Shiffney.  Into  his  big  and 
genial  eyes  there  came  an  expression  of  light  sarcasm,  almost 
of  contempt.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Art  and  the  world!"  he  said  enigmatically. 

"Well,  but,  Max,  don't  you  represent  the  world  in  con- 
nection with  the  art  of  music?" 

"I!    Do  I?"  he  said,  suddenly  grave. 

She  laughed. 

"I  should  think  so,  mon  cher.  I  don't  believe  either  you 
or  I  have  a  right  to  talk!" 

It  was  a  moment  of  truth,  and  was  followed,  as  truth  often 
is,  by  a  moment  of  silence.  Then  Mrs.  Shiffney  said: 

"Claude  Heath  has  gone  to  Algiers  to  compose  an  opera." 

"Oh,  all  this  opera  madness  is  owing  to  the  success  of 
Jacques!" 

"Of  course.  I  know  that.  But  another  Jacques  might 
spring  up,  I  suppose.  Henriette  wouldn't  like  that." 

"Like  it!"  exclaimed  Max  Elliot,  twisting  his  thick  lips. 
"She  wants  a  clear  field  for  the  next  big  event.  And  I  must 
say  she  deserves  it." 

"Just  what  I  think.  Well,  you'll  come  to  Algiers  and  hear 
how  the  new  opera's  getting  on?" 

He  glanced  at  her  determined  eyes. 

"Yes,  I'll  come.  But  it  must  be  only  for  ten  days.  I've 
got  such  a  lot  of  work  on  hand!" 

"Perhaps  I'll  ask  Ferdinand  to  come,  too.     Or — ' 

Suddenly  Mrs.  Shiffney  leaned  forward.  Her  face  had 
become  eager,  almost  excited. 

"Shall  I  ask  Henriette  and  Jacques  to  come  with  us? 
They  don't  go  to  New  York  this  year." 

Max  Elliot  seemed  to  hesitate.  He  was  an  enthusiast, 
and  apt  to  be  carried  away  by  his  enthusiasms,  sometimes 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        235 

even  into  absurdity.  But  he  was  a  thoroughly  good  fellow, 
and  had  not  the  slightest  aptitude  or  taste  for  intrigue.  Mrs. 
Shiffney  saw  his  hesitation. 

"I  will  ask  them,"  she  said,  "Charmian  Heath  will  love 
to  know  them,  I'm  sure.  She  has  such  a  fine  taste  in  celeb- 
rities." 


On  a  brilliant  day  in  the  first  week  of  February  The 
Wanderer  glided  into  the  harbor  of  Algiers,  and,  like  a 
sentient  being  with  a  discriminating  brain,  picked  her  way 
to  her  moorings.  On  board  of  her  were  Mrs.  Shiffney,  Susan 
Fleet,  Madame  Sennier,  Jacques  Sennier,  and  Max  Elliot. 

The  composer  had  been  very  ill  on  the  voyage.  His 
lamentations  and  cries  of  "Ah,  mon  Dieu!"  and  "0  la  la 
Id!"  had  been  distressing.  Madame  Sennier  had  never  left 
him.  She  had  nursed  him  as  if  he  were  a  child,  holding  his 
poor  stomach  and  back  in  the  great  crises  of  his  malady,  lay- 
ing him  firmly  on  his  enormous  pillows  when  exhaustion 
brought  a  moment  of  respite,  feeding  him  with  a  spoon  and 
drenching  him  with  eau  de  Cologne.  She  now  gave  bim  her 
arm  to  help  him  on  deck,  twining  a  muffler  round  his  meager 
throat. 

"It's  lovely,  my  cabbage!  You  must  lift  the  head! 
You  must  regard  the  jewelled  Colonial  crown  of  our  beloved 
France!" 

"  A  h,  mon  Dieu!    0  la  la  la!"  replied  her  celebrated  husband. 

"My  little  chicken,  you  must  have  courage!" 

Susan  Fleet  had  let  Charmian  know  how  she  was  coming, 
and  had  mentioned  Mrs.  Shiffney.  But  she  had  said  nothing 
about  the  Senniers,  for  the  simple  reason  that  Adelaide  had 
told  her  nothing  about  them  until  they  stepped  into  the 
wagon-lit  in  Paris.  Then  she  had  remarked  carelessly: 

"Oh,  yes,  I  believe  they're  crossing  with  us!    Why  not?" 

As  soon  as  the  yacht  was  moored  the  whole  party  prepared 
to  leave  her.  Rooms  had  been  engaged  in  advance  at  the 
Hotel  St.  George.  And  Susan  Fleet  was  going  at  once  to 
Djenan-el-Maqui. 

"Tell   Charmian  Heath  I'll  look  in  this  afternoon  with 


236        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

Max,  Susan,  about  tea-time.  Don't  say  anything  about  the 
Senniers.  They  won't  come,  I'm  sure.  He  says  he's  going 
straight  to  bed  directly  he  reaches  the  hotel.  Charmian 
would  be  disappointed.  I'll  explain  to  her." 

These  were  Mrs.  Shiffney's  last  words  to  Susan,  as  she 
pulled  down  her  thick  white  veil,  opened  her  parasol,  and 
stepped  into  the  landau  to  drive  up  to  the  hotel.  Madame 
Sennier  was  already  in  the  carriage,  where  the  composer  lay 
back  opposite  to  her  with  closed  eyes.  Even  the  brilliant 
sunshine,  the  soft  and  delicious  air,  the  gay  cries  and  the 
movement  at  the  wharf,  where  many  Arabs  were  unloading 
bales  of  goods  from  the  ships,  or  were  touting  for  employment 
as  porters  and  guides,  failed  to  rouse  him. 

"I  must  go  to  bed!"  was  his  sole  remark. 

"My  cat,  you  shall  have  the  best  bed  in  Africa  and  stay 
there  for  a  week.  Only  have  courage  for  another  five 
minutes!"  said  his  wife,  speaking  to  him  with  the  intonation 
of  a  strong-hearted  mother  reassuring  a  little  child. 

When  Susan  arrived  at  Djenan-el-Maqui  she  found  Char- 
mian there  alone.  Charmian  greeted  her  eagerly,  but  looked 
at  her  anxiously,  almost  suspiciously,  after  the  first  kiss. 

"Where's  Adelaide?    On  the  yacht?" 

"  She's  gone  to  the  Hotel  St.  George." 

"Oh!  Close  to  us!  How  long  is  she  going  to  stay?  Oh, 
Susan,  why  did  you  let  her  come?" 

"I  couldn't  help  it.     But  why  need  you  mind?" 

"Adelaide  hates  me!" 

"Oh,  no!" 

"She  does.     And  you  know  it." 

"I  really  don't  think  she  has  time  to  hate  you,  Charmian. 
And  Adelaide  can  be  very  kind." 

"Your  theosophy  prevents  you  from  allowing  that  there 
are  any  faults  in  your  friends.  Yes,  Susan,  it  does." 

"Have  you  read  the  manuals  carefully?" 

"Yes,  but  I  can't  think  of  them  now.  Adelaide's  being 
here  will  spoil  everything." 

"No  it  won't!  She'll  only  stay  a  day  or  two,  not  that, 
perhaps." 

"But  why  did  she  come  at  all?" 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        237 

"She  didn't  tell  me.  She's  coming  to  see  you  to-day 
with  Mr.  Elliot." 

"Max  Elliot,  too!  Of  course  it  is  Claude  whom  Adelaide 
wants  to  see.  I  quite  understand  that.  But  he's  not  here." 

"What  has  become  of  him?" 

"Susan,  you  know  of  course  he  wished  to  welcome  you. 
He  is  devoted  to  you.  But — well,  the  truth  is" — she  slightly 
lowered  her  voice,  although  there  was  no  one  in  the  room — 
"he  had  to  go  away  for  the  opera.  He  has  gone  to  Con- 
stantine  with  Armand  Gillier,  the  author  of  the  libretto,  to 
study  the  native  music  there,  and  military  life,  I  believe. 
There  is  a  big  garrison  at  Constantine,  you  know.  Monsieur 
Gillier  is  a  most  valuable  friend  for  Claude,  and  can  help  him 
tremendously  in  many  ways;  with  the  opera,  I  mean." 

She  stopped.    Then  she  added: 

"Adelaide  Shiffney  might  have  been  of  great  use  to  Claude, 
too.  But  before  we  were  married  he  offended  her,  I  think. 
And  now,  of  course,  she's  on  the  other  side." 

"I  don't  know  whether  I  quite  understand  what  you 
mean." 

"She's  on  Sennier's  side." 

It  seemed  to  Susan  Fleet  that  Charmian  was  living  rather 
prematurely  in  a  future  that  was  somewhat  problematic. 
But  she  only  said: 

"Don't  let  us  make  too  much  of  it.  I  hoped  you  might 
learn  from  the  manuals  not  to  worry.  But  while  I'm  here 
we  can  talk  them  over,  if  you  like." 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Charmian,  changing,  melting  almost  into 
happiness.  "Oh,  I  am  glad  you've  come,  even  though  it 
entails  Adelaide  for  a  day  or  two.  Of  course  she  knows  about 
the  opera?" 

"Yes,  she  does." 

"I  knew."  She  looked  into  Susan's  face,  smiled,  and 
concluded:  "Never  mind!" 

At  five  o'clock  that  day  the  peace  of  Djenan-el-Maqui  was 
broken  by  the  sound  of  animated  voices  in  the  courtyard. 
A  bell  jangled  and  a  moment  later  Pierre,  with  his  most  bird- 
like  demeanor,  ushered  into  the  drawing-room  Mrs.  Shiffney, 
Madame  Sennier,  her  husband,  and  Max  Elliot. 


238        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

"What  a  dear  little  house!"  said  Mrs.  Shiffney,  looking 
quickly  round  her  with  searching  eyes,  while  they  waited  for 
their  hostess.  "Nothing  worth  twopence-halfpenny,  but 
nothing  wrong.  I  declare  I  quite  envy-  them." 

"It's  charming!"  said  Max  Elliot. 

"Love  in  a  harem!    Better  than  in  a  cottage." 

Madame  Sennier  pushed  up  her  huge  floating  veil  and 
showed  her  powerful  face  of  a  clown  covered  with  white 
pigment.  Her  lips  made  a  scarlet  bar  across  it. 

"What  is  she  like?    I  remember  the  man.    He's  clever." 

"Oh,  she — she  is  charming;  thin  and  charming." 

"That's  well!"  observed  the  composer.  "That's  very 
well." 

He  appeared  to  have  quite  recovered  from  his  despair,  and 
now  looked  almost  defiantly  cheerful.  Small  in  body,  with 
a  narrow  chest  and  shoulders,  and  a  weakly  growing  beard, 
he  was  nevertheless  remarkable,  even  striking  in  appearance. 
His  large  nose  suggested  Semitic  blood,  but  also  power,  which 
was  shown,  too,  in  his  immense  forehead  and  strong,  energetic 
head.  He  had  a  habit  of  blinking  his  eyes.  But  they  were 
fine  eyes,  full  of  feeling,  imagination,  and  emotion,  but  also  at 
moments  full  of  sarcasm  and  shrewdness.  His  dark,  hairy  and 
small  hands  were  rather  monkeylike,  and  looked  destructive. 

"Every  woman  should  be  thin  and  charming,"  he  con- 
tinued. "The  camel  species,  the  elephant-type,  the  cowlike 
ruminating  specimen — milky  mother  of  the  lowing  herd,  as  an 
English  poet  has  expressed  it,  and  very  well,  too — should" — 
he  flung  out  one  little  hairy  hand  vehemently — "go  with 
the  advance  of  corset-makers  and  civilization.  She  comes!" 

The  door  had  opened,  and  Charmian  came  in. 

Instantly  her  eyes  fastened  on  Madame  Sennier. 

She  was  so  surprised  that  she  stood  still  by  the  door,  and 
her  whole  face  was  suffused  with  blood.  So  much  had  this 
woman  meant,  did  she  still  mean  in  Charmian's  life,  that 
even  the  habit  of  the  world  did  not  help  Charmian  to  complete 
self-control  at  this  moment. 

"I'm  afraid  our  coming  has  quite  startled  you,"  said  Mrs. 
Shiffney.  "Didn't  Susan  tell  you  we  were  going  to  look  in?" 

"Yes,  of  course.    I'm  delighted!" 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        239 

Charmian  moved.     She  was  secretly  furious  with  herself. 

Max  Elliot  took  her  hand,  and  Mrs.  Shiffney  carelessly 
introduced  the  Senniers. 

"What  a  dear  little  retreat  you've  found  here,  and  how 
deliciously  you've  arranged  everything,"  she  said.  "You've 
made  a  perfect  nest  for  your  genius.  We  are  all  longing  to 
see  him." 

They  were  sitting  now.  Charmian  was  on  a  divan  beside 
Madame  Sennier. 

"A  clever  man!"  said  Madame  Sennier,  decisively.  "I 
met  him  once  at  the  opera.  You  remember,  Jacques,  I  told 
you  what  he  said  about  your  orchestration?" 

"Yes,  yes,  about  my  use  of  the  flutes  in  connection  with 
muted  strings  and  the  horns  to  give  the  effect  of  water." 

"I  want  Monsieur  Sennier  to  know  him,"  said  Mrs.  Shiffney. 

"I'm  so  sorry,  but  he's  not  here,"  said  Charmian. 

Just  then  Susan  Fleet  came  in.  Mrs.  Shiffney  turned  to 
her. 

"Susan!  Such  a  disappointment!  But,  of  course,  you 
know!" 

"About  Mr.  Heath?    Yes." 

"Has  he  gone  back  to  England?"  said  Max  Elliot. 

"Oh,  no.     He's  in  Algeria." 

Charmian  obviously  hesitated,  saw  that  any  want  of  frank- 
ness would  seem  extraordinary,  and  added: 

"He  has  gone  to  Constantine  with  a  friend." 

Her  voice  was  reluctant. 

"Do  have  some  tea!"  she  added  quickly,  pulling  the  bell, 
which  Pierre  promptly  answered  with  the  tea  things. 

"Constantine!"  said  Mrs.  Shiffney.  "That's  no  distance, 
only  a  night  in  the  train.  Can't  you  persuade  him  to  come 
back  and  see  us?  Do  be  a  dear  and  telegraph." 

She  spoke  in  her  most  airy  way. 

"I  would  in  a  minute.  But  he's  not  gone  merely  to  amuse 
himself." 

"The  opera!"  said  Mrs.  Shiffney.  "By  the  way,  is  it 
indiscreet  to  ask  who  wrote  the  libretto?" 

Ag  ain  Charmian  hesitated,  and  again  overcame  her  hesi- 
tation. 


240        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

"It  is  by  a  Frenchman,  or  rather  an  Algerian,  French  but 
born  here.  His  name  is  Gillier." 

"Armand  Gillier?"  exclaimed  Madame  Sennier,  while  her 
husband  threw  out  his  hands  in  a  gesture  of  surprise. 

"Yes.     Do  you  know  him?" 

"  Know  him ! "  exclaimed  the  composer.  "  When  have  I  not 
known  him?  Three  libretti  by  him  have  I  rejected — three, 
madame.  He  challenged  me  to  a  duel,  pistols,  if  you  please !  I 
to  fire,  and  perhaps  be  shot,  because  he  cannot  write  a  good  lib- 
retto !  Which  has  your  poor  unfortunate  husband  accepted?  " 

Charmian  handed  the  tea.  She  felt  Madame  Sennier's 
hard  and  observant  eyes — they  were  yellow  eyes,  and  small — 
fixed  upon  her. 

"Claude's  libretto  has  never  been  offered  to  anyone  else," 
she  answered. 

Madame  Sennier  slightly  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"And  so  Gillier  is  with  your  husband!"  she  observed. 
Apparently  she  was  clairvoyante.  "Well,  madame,  you  are 
a  brave  woman.  That  is  all  I  can  say!" 

"Brave!    But  why?" 

Mrs.  Shiffney's  eyes  looked  full  of  laughter. 

"Why,  Henriette?"  she  asked,  leaning  forward.  "Do  tell 
us." 

"Gillier  makes  other  people  like  he  is,"  said  Madame 
Sennier.  "But  what  does  it  matter?  Each  one  for  himself! 
Don't  you  say  that  in  England?" 

She  had  turned  to  Max  Elliot. 

"That  applies  specially  to  women,"  she  continued,  with 
her  curiously  ruthless  and  too  self-possessed  air.  "Each 
woman  for  herself,  and  the  Devil  will  carefully  take  the  hind- 
most. Why  should  he  not?" 

She  shot  another  glance  at  Charmian,  a  glance  penetrating 
and  cold  as  a  dagger.  Charmian  felt  that  she  hated  this 
woman.  And  yet  she  admired  her  immensely,  too.  Madame 
Sennier  would  never  be  taken  by  the  Devil  because  she  was 
the  hindmost.  That  was  certain. 

Max  Elliot  began  to  talk  to  Sennier  and  Mrs.  Shiffney. 
Susan  Fleet  went  over  to  sit  with  them.  And  Charmian  had 
an  opportunity  for  conversation  with  Madame  Sennier. 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        241 

She  secretly  shrank  from  her,  yet  she  longed  to  be  more 
intimate  with  her,  to  learn  something  from  her.  She  felt 
that  the  Frenchwoman  was  completely  unscrupulous.  She 
saw  cruelty  in  those  yellow  eyes.  The  red  mouth  was  hard 
as  a  bar  of  iron  in  the  artificial  white  face.  Madame  Sennier 
moved  in  a  sea  of  perfume.  And  even  this  perfume  troubled 
and  disgusted,  yet  half  fascinated  Charmian,  suggesting  to 
her  knowledge  that  she  did  not  possess,  and  that  perhaps 
helped  on  the  way  of  ambition.  She  felt  like  an  ignorant 
child,  and  almost  preposterously  English,  as  she  talked  to 
Madame  Sennier,  who  became  voluble  in  reply.  There  was 
something  meridional  in  her  manner  and  her  fluency.  Char- 
mian felt  sure  that  Madame  Sennier  had  risen  out  of  depths 
about  which  she,  Charmian,  knew  nothing.  She  wondered 
if  this  woman  loved  her  husband,  or  only  loved  the  genius  in 
him  which  helped  her  to  rise,  which  brought  her  wealth,  in- 
fluence, even,  it  seemed,  a  curious  adoration.  She  wondered, 
too,  if  this  woman  had  known  the  first  Madame  Sennier. 

Presently  Mrs.  Shiffney  got  up.  She  was  apt  to  be  rest- 
less. 

"May  we  go  and  look  about  outside?"  she  said. 

"Of  course.     Shall  I—" 

"No,  no.  I  see  you  are  interested  in  each  other.  Two 
wives  of  geniuses!  I  don't  want  to  spoil  it.  Come,  Jacques, 
let  us  explore." 

They  went  away  to  the  court  of  the  gold-fish.  Max  Elliot 
followed  them.  As  they  went  Madame  Sennier  fixed  her  eyes 
for  a  moment  on  her  departing  husband.  In  that  moment 
Charmian  found  out  something.  Madame  Sennier  certainly 
cared  for  the  man,  as  well  as  for  the  composer.  Charmian 
fancied  that  love,  that  softness  for  the  one,  bred  hatred, 
hardness,  for  many  others,  that  it  was  an  exclusive  and  almost 
terrible  love.  Now  that  she  was  alone  with  Madame  Sennier, 
enclosed  as  it  were  in  that  strong  perfume,  she  felt  almost 
afraid  of  her.  She  was  conscious  of  being  with  someone  far 
cleverer  than  herself.  And  she  realized  what  an  effective 
weapon  in  certain  hands  is  an  absolute  lack  of  scruple.  It 
seemed  to  her  as  she  sat  and  talked,  about  Paris,  America, 
London,  art,  music,  that  this  woman  must  have  divined  her 

16 


242        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

secret  and  intense  ambition.  Those  yellow  eyes  had  surely 
looked  into  her  soul,  and  knew  that  she  had  brought  Claude 
to  Algeria  in  order  that  some  day  he  might  come  forth  as  the 
rival  of  Jacques  Sennier.  Almost  she  ielt  guilty.  She  made 
a  strong  effort,  and  turned  the  conversation  to  the  subject  of 
the  Paradis  Terrestre,  expressing  her  enthusiasm  for  it. 

Madame  Sennier  received  the  praises  with  an  air  of  gracious 
indifference,  as  if  her  husband's  opera  were  now  so  famous 
that  it  was  scarcely  worth  while  to  talk  about  it.  This  care- 
lessness accentuated  brutally  the  difference  between  her 
position  and  Charmian's.  And  it  stung  Charmian  into  in- 
discretion. Something  fiery  and  impetuous  seemed  to  rise 
up  in  her,  something  that  wanted  to  fight.  She  began  to 
speak  of  her  husband's  talent. 

Madame  Sennier  listened  politely,  as  one  who  listens  on  a 
height  to  small  voices  stealing  vaguely  up  from  below.  Char- 
mian began  to  underline  things.  It  was  as  if  one  of  the  voices 
from  below  became  strident  in  the  determination  to  be  ade- 
quately heard,  to  make  its  due  effect.  Finally  she  was  be- 
trayed into  saying: 

"Of  course  we  wives  of  composers  are  apt  to  be  prejudiced." 

Madame  Sennier  stared. 

"But,"  added  Charmian,  "people  who  really  know  think 
a  great  deal  of  my  husband;  Mr.  Crayford,  for  instance." 

Directly  she  had  said  this  she  repented  of  it.  She  realized 
that  Claude  would  have  hated  the  remark  had  he  heard  it. 

Madame  Sennier  seemed  unimpressed,  and  at  that  moment 
the  others  came  in  from  the  garden.  But  Charmian,  why  she 
did  not  know,  felt  increasing  regret  for  her  inadvertence. 
She  even  wished  that  Madame  Sennier  had  shown  some 
emotion,  surprise,  even  contemptuous  incredulity.  The 
complete  blankness  of  the  Frenchwoman  at  that  moment 
made  Charmian  uneasy. 

When  they  were  all  going  Mrs.  Shiffney  insisted  on  Charmian 
and  Susan  Fleet  dining  at  the  Hotel  St.  George  that  evening. 
Charmian  wanted  to  refuse  and  wished  to  go.  Of  course 
she  accepted.  She  and  Susan  had  no  engagement  to  plead. 

Jacques  Sennier  clasped  her  hands  on  parting  and  gazed 
fervently  into  her  eyes. 


'OF  COURSE  WE  WIVES  OF  COMPOSERS  ARE  APT  TO  BE 
PREJUDICED  '  "—Pa?e  242 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        243 

"Let  me  come  sometimes  and  sit  in  your  garden,  may  I, 
Madame?  "  he  said,  as  if  begging  for  some  great  boon.  "Only" 
— he  lowered  his  voice — "only  till  your  husband  comes  back. 
There  is  inspiration  here!" 

Charmian  knew  he  was  talking  nonsense.  Nevertheless 
she  glanced  round  half  in  dread  of  Madame  Sennier.  The 
yellow  eyes  were  smiling.  The  white  face  looked  humorously 
sarcastic. 

"Of  course!    Whenever  you  like!"  she  said  lightly. 

The  monkey-like  hands  pressed  hers  more  closely. 

"The  freedom  of  Africa,  you  give  it  me!" 

He  whisked  round,  with  a  sharp  and  absurd  movement, 
and  joined  the  others. 

"She  is  delicious!"  he  observed,  as  they  walked  away. 
"But  she  is  very  undeveloped.  She  has  certainly  never 
suffered.  And  no  woman  can  be  of  much  use  to  an  artist 
unless  she  has  suffered." 

"Henriette,  have  you  suffered?"  said  Mrs.  Shiffney, 
laughing. 

"Terribly!"  said  Jacques  Sennier,  answering  for  his  wife. 
"But  unfortunately  not  through  me.  That  is  the  great  flaw 
in  our  connection." 

He  frowned. 

"I  must  make  her  suffer!"  he  muttered. 

"My  cabbage,  you  are  a  little  fool  and  you  know  it!" 
observed  Madame  Sennier  imperturbably.  "Mon  Dieu! 
What  dust!" 

They  had  emerged  into  the  road,  and  were  enveloped  in  a 
cloud  sent  up  by  a  passing  motor. 

"If  it  doesn't  rain,  or  they  don't  water  the  roads,  I  shall 
run  away  to  Constantine,"  observed  Mrs.  Shiffney.  "There'll 
be  no  dust  in  Constantine  at  this  time  of  year." 


CHAPTER  XXI 

IN  the  evening  of  the  following  day  Charmian  and  Susan 
Fleet  had  just  sat  down  to  dinner,  and  Pierre  was  about  to 
lift  the  lid  off  the  soup  tureen,  when  there  was  a  ring  at  the 
front  door  bell. 

"What  can  that  be?"  said  Charmian. 

She  looked  at  Susan. 

"  Susan,  I  feel  as  if  it  were  somebody,  or  something  im- 
portant." 

Pierre  raised  the  lid  with  a  pathetic  gesture,  and  went  out 
carrying  it  high  in  his  left  hand. 

"I  wonder  what  it  is?"  said  Charmian. 

All  day  they  had  not  seen  Mrs.  Shiffney  or  her  party. 
They  had  passed  the  hours  alone  in  the  garden,  talking, 
working,  reading,  but  chiefly  discussing  Charmian's  affairs. 
And  calm  had  flowed  upon  Charmian,  had  enfolded  her  almost 
against  her  will.  At  the  end  of  the  day  she  had  said: 

"Susan,  you  do  me  more  good  than  anyone  I  know.  I 
don't  understand  how  it  is,  but  you  seem  to  purify  me  almost, 
as  a  breeze  from  the  sea — when  it's  calm — purifies  a  room  if 
you  open  the  window  to  it." 

But  now,  as  she  waited  for  Pierre's  return,  she  felt  strung 
up  and  excited. 

"If  it  should  be  Claude  come  back!"  she  said. 

"Would  he  ring?"  asked  Susan. 

"No.     But  he  might!" 

At  this  moment  a  loud  murmur  of  talk  was  audible  in  the 
hall,  and  then  a  voice  exclaiming: 

"Ca  ne  Jait  rien!  Ca  ne  Jait  rienl  Laissez  moi  passer, 
mon  bonl" 

"Surely  it's  Monsieur  Sennier!"  exclaimed  Charmian. 

As  she  spoke,  the  door  opened  and  the  composer  entered, 
pushing  past  Pierre,  whose  thin  face  wore  an  outraged  look. 

"Me  void!"  he  exclaimed.  "Deserted,  abandoned,  I 

244 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION         245 

come  to  you.  How  can  I  eat  alone  in  a  hotel?  It  is  im- 
possible! I  tried.  I  sat  down.  They  brought  me  caviare, 
potage.  I  looked,  raised  my  fork,  my  spoon.  Impossible! 
Will  you  save  me  from  myself?  See,  I  am  in  my  smoking! 
I  shall  not  disgrace  you." 

"Of  course!  Pierre,  please  lay  another  place.  But  who 
has  abandoned  you?" 

"Everyone — Henriette,  Adelaide,  even  the  faithful  Max. 
They  would  have  taken  me,  but  I  refused  to  go." 

"Where  to?" 

"Batna,  Biskra,  que  sais-je?  Adelaide  is  restless  as  an 
enraged  cat!" 

He  sat  down,  and  began  greedily  to  eat  his  soup. 

"Ah,  this  is  good!  Your  cook  is  to  be  loved.  For  once — 
may  I?" 

Glancing  up  whimsically,  almost  like  a  child,  he  lifted  his 
napkin  toward  his  collar. 

"I  may!  Madame,  you  are  an  angel.  You  are  a  flock  of 
angels.  Why,  I  said  to  them,  should  I  leave  this  beautiful 
city  to  throw  myself  into  the  arms  of  a  mad  librettist,  who 
desires  my  blood  simply  because  he  cannot  write?  Must 
genius  die  because  an  idiot  has  practised  on  bottles  with  a 
revolver?  It  shall  not  be!" 

"Do  you  mean  Monsieur  Gillier?  Then  they  are  going 
to  Constantine!"  said  Charmian  sharply. 

"To  Constantine,  Tunis,  Batna,  Biskra,  the  Sahara — 
que  sais-je?  Adelaide  is  like  a  cat  enraged!  She  cannot 
rest!  And  she  has  seduced  my  Henriette." 

He  seemed  perfectly  contented,  ate  an  excellent  dinner, 
stayed  till  very  late  in  the  night,  talked,  joked,  and  finally, 
sitting  down  at  the  piano,  played  and  sang.  He  was  by  turns 
a  farceur,  a  wit,  a  man  of  emotion,  a  man  with  a  touch  of 
genius.  And  in  everything  he  said  and  did  he  was  almost 
preposterously  unreserved.  He  seemed  to  be  child,  monkey 
and  artist  in  combination.  It  was  inconceivable  that  he 
could  ever  feel  embarrassed  or  self-conscious. 

At  first,  after  his  unexpected  entry,  Charmian  had  been 
almost  painfully  preoccupied.  Sennier,  without  apparently 
noticing  this,  broke  her  preoccupation  down.  He  was  an 


246        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

egoist,  but  a  singularly  amusing  and  even  attractive  one, 
throwing  open  every  door,  and  begging  you  to  admire  and 
delight  in  every  room.  Charmian  began  to  study  him,  this 
man  of  a  great  success.  How  different  he  was  from  Claude. 
Now  that  she  was  with  Sennier  she  was  more  sharply  aware 
of  Claude's  reserve  than  she  had  ever  been  before,  of  a  certain 
rigidity  which  underlay  all  the  apparent  social  readiness. 

When  Sennier  sang,  in  a  voice  that  scarcely  existed  but 
that  charmed,  she  was  really  entranced.  When  he  played 
after  midnight  she  was  excited,  intensely  excited. 

It  was  past  one  o'clock  when  he  left  reluctantly,  promising 
to  return  on  the  morrow,  to  take  all  his  meals  at  Djenan-el- 
Maqui,  to  live  there,  except  for  the  very  few  hours  claimed 
by  sleep,  till  the  "cat  enraged"  and  his  wife  returned.  Char- 
mian helped  him  to  put  on  his  coat.  He  resigned  himself  to 
her  hands  like  a  child.  Standing  quite  still,  he  permitted  her 
to  button  the  coat.  He  left,  singing  an  air  from  an  opera 
he  was  composing,  arm  in  arm  with  Pierre,  who  was  to  escort 
him  to  his  hotel. 

"I  dare  not  go  alone!"  he  exclaimed.  "I  am  afraid  of 
the  Arabs!  The  Arabs  are  traitors.  Gladly  would  they 
kill  a  genius  of  France!" 

When  he  was  gone,  when  his  extraordinary  personality  was 
withdrawn,  Charmian's  painful  preoccupation  returned.  She 
had  sent  Claude  away  because  she  did  not  wish  Adelaide 
Shiffney  to  meet  him.  It  had  been  an  instinctive  action,  not 
preceded  by  any  train  of  reasoning.  Adelaide  was  coming 
out  of  curiosity.  Therefore  her  curiosity  should  not  be 
gratified.  And  now  she  had  gone  to  Constantine,  and  taken 
Madame  Sennier  with  her.  Charmian  remembered  her  inad- 
vertence of  the  day  before  when  she  had  said,  perhaps  scarcely 
with  truth,  that  Jacob  Crayford  admired  Claude's  talent;  the 
Frenchwoman's  almost  strangely  blank  expression  and  appar- 
ent utter  indifference,  her  own  uneasiness.  That  uneasiness 
returned  now,  and  was  accentuated.  But  what  could  happen? 
What  could  either  Madame  Sennier  or  Adelaide  Shiffney  do  to 
disturb  her  peace  or  interfere  with  her  life  or  Claude's?  Noth- 
ing surely.  Yet  she  felt  as  if  they  were  both  hostile  to  her, 
were  set  against  all  she  wished  for.  And  she  felt  as  if  she  had 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION         247 

been  like  an  angry  child  when  she  had  talked  of  her  husband  to 
Madame  Sennier.  Women — clever,  influential  women — can 
do  much  either  for  or  against  a  man  who  enters  on  a  public 
career. 

Charmian  longed  to  say  all  that  was  in  her  heart  to  Susan 
Fleet.  But,  blaming  herself  for  lack  of  self-control  on  the 
previous  day,  she  resolved  to  exercise  self-control  now.  So 
she  only  kissed  Susan  and  wished  her  "  Good-night." 

"I  know  I  shan't  sleep,"  she  said. 

"Why  not?" 

"Sennier's  playing  has  stirred  me  up  too  much." 

"Resolve  quietly  to  sleep,  and  I  think  you  will." 

Charmian  did  not  tell  Susan  that  she  was  quite  incapable 
at  that  moment  of  resolving  quietly  on  anything. 

She  lay  awake  nearly  all  night. 

Meanwhile  Mrs.  Shiffney,  Madame  Sennier,  and  Max  Elliot 
were  in  the  night-train  travelling  to  Constantine. 

It  had  all  been  arranged  with  Mrs.  Shiffney's  usual  appar- 
ently careless  abruptness.  In  the  afternoon,  after  a  little  talk 
with  Henriette  in  the  garden  of  the  St.  George,  she  had  called 
the  composer  and  Max  Elliot  on  to  the  big  terrace,  and  had 
said: 

"I  feel  dull.  Nothing  special  to  do  here,  is  there?  Let's 
all  run  away  to  Biskra.  We  can  take  Timgad  and  all  the 
rest  on  the  way." 

Max  Elliot  had  looked  at  her  for  a  moment  rather  sharply. 
Then  his  mind  had  been  diverted  by  the  lamentations  of  the 
composer,  calling  attention  to  the  danger  he  ran  in  venturing 
near  to  Armand  Gillier. 

Elliot  had  a  very  kind  heart,  and  by  its  light  he  sometimes 
read  clearly  a  human  prose  that  did  not  please  him.  Now, 
as  he  lay  in  his  narrow  berth  in  the  wagon-lit  jolting  toward 
Constantine,  he  read  some  of  Adelaide  Shiffney's  prose. 
Faintly,  for  the  train  was  noisy,  he  heard  voices  in  the  next 
compartment,  where  Mrs.  Shiffney  and  Madame  Sennier  were 
talking  in  their  berths.  Mrs.  Shiffney  was  in  the  top  berth. 
That  fact  gave  the  measure  of  Madame  Sennier's  iron  will. 

"You  really  believe  it?"  cried  Madame  Sennier. 

"How  is  one  to  know?    But  Crayford  is  moving  Heaven 


248        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

and  earth  to  find  a  genius.  He  may  have  his  eye  on  Claude 
Heath.  He  believes  in  les  jeunes." 

"Jacques  is  forty." 

"  If  one  has  arrived  it  doesn't  matter  much  what  age  one  is." 

"You  don't  think  Crayford  can  have  given  this  man  a 
secret  commission  to  compose  an  opera?" 

"Oh,  no.  Why  should  he?  Besides,  if  he  had,  she  would 
have  let  it  out.  She  could  never  have  kept  such  a  thing  to 
herself." 

"Max  thought  his  music  wonderful,  didn't  he?" 

"Yes,  but  it  was  all  sacred.  Te  Deums,  and  things  of  that 
sort  that  nobody  on  earth  would  ever  listen  to." 

"I  should  like  to  see  the  libretto." 

"What?  I  can't  hear.  I'm  right  up  against  the  roof, 
and  the  noise  is  dreadful." 

"I  say,  I  should  like  to  see  the  libretto!"  almost  screamed 
Madame  Sennier. 

"Probably  it's  one  that  Jacques  refused." 

"No,  it  can't  be." 

"What?" 

"  No,  it  can't  be.  He  never  saw  a  libretto  that  was  Algerian. 
And  this  one  evidently  is.  I  wonder  if  it's  a  good  one." 

"  Make  him  show  it  to  you." 

"  Gillier!    He  wouldn't.     He  hates  us  both." 

"Not  Gillier,  Claude  Heath." 

"What?" 

Mrs.  Shiffney  leaned  desperately  out  over  the  side  of  her 
narrow  berth. 

"Claude  Heath— or  I'll  make  him." 

"I  never  cared  very  much  for  the  one  Jacques  is  setting 
for  the  Metropolitan.  But  it  was  the  best  sent  in.  I  chose  it. 
I  read  nearly  a  hundred.  It  would  be  just  like  Gillier  to 
write  something  really  fine,  and  then  not  to  let  us  see  it. 
I  always  knew  he  was  clever  and  might  succeed  some  day." 

"I'll  get  hold  of  it  for  you." 

"What?" 

"I'll  get  hold  of  it  for  you  from  Heath.  When  will  Jacques 
be  ready,  do  you  think?" 

"Oh,  not  for  ages.     He  works  slowly,  and  I  never  inter- 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        249 

fere  with  him.  Nobody  but  a  fool  would  interfere  with  the 
method  of  a  man  of  genius." 

"Do  you  think  Charmian  Heath  is  a  fool?" 

At  this  moment  the  train  suddenly  slackened,  and  Mrs. 
Shiff ney  and  Madame  Sennier,  leaning  down  and  up,  exchanged 
sibilant  and  almost  simultaneous  hushes. 

Max  Elliot  heard  them  quite  distinctly.  They  were  the  only 
part  of  the  conversation  which  reached  him. 

He  was  an  old  friend  of  Adelaide,  and  was  devoted  to  the 
Senniers  and  to  their  cause.  But  he  did  not  quite  like  this  ex- 
pedition. He  realized  that  these  charming  women,  whom  he 
was  escorting  to  a  barbaric  city,  were  driven  by  curiosity,  and 
that  in  their  curiosity  there  was  something  secretly  hostile. 
He  wished  they  had  stayed  at  Mustapha,  and  had  decided  to 
leave  Claude  Heath  alone  with  his  violent  librettist.  Elliot 
greatly  disliked  the  active  hostility  to  artists  often  shown  by 
the  partisans  of  other  artists.  There  was  no  question,  of  course, 
of  any  rivalry  between  Heath,  an  almost  unknown  man,  and 
Sennier,  a  man  now  of  world-wide  fame.  Yet  these  two 
women  were  certainly  on  the  qui  vive.  It  was  very  absurd,  he 
thought.  But  it  was  also  rather  disagreeable  to  him.  He 
began  to  wish  that  Henriette  were  not  so  almost  viciously 
determined  to  keep  the  path  clear  for  her  husband.  The  wife 
of  a  little  man  might  well  be  afraid  of  every  possible  rival. 
But  Sennier  was  not  a  little  man. 

Elliot  did  not  understand  either  the  nature  of  Henriette's 
heart  or  the  nature  of  her  mind.  Nor  did  he  know  her  origin. 
In  fact,  he  knew  very  little  about  her. 

She  was  just  fifty,  and  had  been  for  a  time  a  governess  in 
a  merchant's  family  in  Marseilles.  This  occupation  she  had 
quitted  with  an  abruptness  that  had  not  been  intentional.  In 
fact,  she  had  been  turned  out.  Afterward  she  had  remained 
in  Marseilles,  but  not  as  a  governess.  Finally  she  had  married 
Jacques  Sennier.  She  was  low-born,  but  had  been  very  well 
educated,  and  was  naturally  clever.  Her  cleverness  had 
throughout  her  life  instinctively  sought  an  outlet  in  intrigue. 
Some  women  intrigue  when  circumstances  drive  them  to 
subterfuge,  trickery  and  underhand  dealing.  Henriette  Sennier 
needed  no  incentive  of  that  kind.  She  liked  intrigue  for  its 


250        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

own  sake.  In  Marseilles  she  had  lived  in  the  midst  of  a  net- 
work of  double  dealing  connected  with  so-called  love.  When 
she  married  Jacques  Sennier  she  had  exchanged  it  for  in- 
trigue connected  with  art.  She  was-  by  nature  suspicious 
and  inquisitive,  generally  unable  to  trust  because  she  was 
untrustworthy.  But  her  devotion  to  her  Jacques  was  sincere 
and  concentrated.  It  helped  to  make  her  cruel,  but  it  helped 
to  make  her  strong.  She  was  incapable  of  betraying  Jacques, 
but  she  was  capable  of  betraying  everyone  for  Jacques. 

Without  the  slightest  uneasiness  she  had  left  him  alone  at 
Mustapha.  He  was  the  only  person  she  trusted — for  a  week. 
She  meant  to  be  back  at  Mustapha  within  a  week. 

After  their  "Hush!"  she  and  Mrs.  Shiffney  decided  not  to 
talk  any  more. 

"It  makes  my  throat  ache  shouting  up  against  the  roof," 
said  Mrs.  Shiffney. 

She  had,  how  or  why  she  scarcely  knew,  come  to  occupy 
an  upper  berth  for  the  first  time  in  her  life.  She  resented  this. 
And  she  resented  it  still  more  when  Madame  Sennier  replied: 

"I  wanted  you  to  choose  the  lower  bed,  but  I  thought  you 
preferred  being  where  you  are." 

Mrs.  Shiffney  made  no  reply,  but  turned  carefully  over  till 
she  was  looking  at  the  wall. 

"Why  do  I  do  things  for  this  woman?"  was  her  thought. 
She  had  told  herself  more  than  once  that  she  was  travelling 
to  Constantine  for  Henriette.  Apparently  she  was  actually 
beginning  to  believe  her  own  statement.  She  closed  her  eyes, 
opened  them  again,  looked  at  the  ceiling,  which  almost 
touched  her  nose,  and  at  the  wall,  which  her  nose  almost 
touched. 

"Why  does  a  woman  ever  do  anything  for  another  woman?" 
she  asked  herself,  amplifying  her  first  thought. 

Adelaide  Shiffney  in  an  upper  berth!  It  was  the  incredible 
accomplished! 


CHAPTER  XXII 

WHAT  a  setting  for  melodrama!"  said  Mrs7  Shiffney. 
She  was  standing  on  the  balcony  of  a  corner  room  on 
the  second  floor  of  the  Grand  Hotel  at  Constantine, 
looking  down  on  the  Place  de  la  Breche.  Evening  was  begin- 
ning to  fall.  The  city  roared  a  tumultuous  serenade  to  its 
delicate  beauty.  The  voices  sent  up  from  the  dusty  gardens, 
the  squares,  and  the  winding  alleys,  from  the  teeming  bazaars, 
the  dancing-houses,  the  houses  of  pleasure,  and  the  painted 
Moorish  cafes,  seemed  to  grow  more  defiant  as  the  light  grew 
colder  on  the  great  slopes  of  the  mountains  that  surround 
Constantine,  as  in  the  folds  of  the  shallow  valleys  the  planta- 
tions of  eucalyptus  darkened  beside  the  streams. 

Madame  Sennier  was  standing  with  Mrs.  Shiffney  and  was 
also  looking  down. 

"Listen  to  all  the  voices!"  she  said.  "Nobody  but  Jacques 
could  ever  get  this  sort  of  effect  into  an  opera." 

A  huge  diligence,  painted  yellow,  green,  and  red,  with  an 
immense  hood  beneath  which  crowded  Arabs  vaguely  showed, 
came  slowly  down  the  hill,  drawn  by  seven  gray  horses.  The 
military  Governor  passed  by  on  horseback,  preceded  by  a 
mounted  soldier,  and  followed  by  two  more  soldiers  and  by  a 
Spahi,  whose  red  jacket  gleamed  against  the  white  coat  of  his 
prancing  stallion.  Bugles  sounded;  bells  rang;  a  donkey 
brayed  with  dreary  violence  in  a  side  street.  Somewhere  a 
mandoline  was  being  thrummed,  and  a  very  French  voice 
rose  above  it  singing  a  song  of  the  Paris  pavements.  In  the 
large  cafes  just  below  the  balcony  where  the  two  women  were 
standing  crowds  of  people  were  seated  at  little  tables,  sipping 
absinthe,  vermouth,  and  bright-colored  syrups.  Among  the 
Europeans  of  various  nations  the  dignified  and  ample  figures 
of  well-dressed  Arabs  in  pale  blue,  green,  brown,  and  white 
burnouses,  with  high  turbans  bound  by  ropes  of  camel's  hair, 
stood  out,  the  conquered  looking  like  conquerors. 

"CirezI  Cirez!"  cried  incessantly  the  Arab  boot-polishers, 

251 


252        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

who  scuffled  and  played  tricks  among  themselves  while  they 
waited  for  customers.  "Cirez,  moosoul  CirezI"  Long  wag- 
ons, loaded  with  stone  from  the  quarries  of  the  Gorge,  jan- 
gled by,  some  of  them  drawn  by-jnixed  teams  of  eleven 
horses  and  mules,  on  whose  necks  chimed  collars  of  bells. 
Chauffeurs  sounded  the  horns  of  their  motors  as  they  slowly 
crept  through  the  nonchalant  crowd  of  natives,  which  had 
gathered  in  front  of  the  post-office  and  the  Municipal  Theater 
to  discuss  the  affairs  of  the  day.  Maltese  coachmen,  seated 
on  the  boxes  of  large  landaus,  cracked  their  whips  to  announce 
to  the  Kabyle  Chasseurs  of  the  two  hotels  the  return  of  travel- 
lers from  their  excursions.  Omnibuses  rolled  slowly  up  from 
the  station  loaded  with  luggage,  which  was  vehemently  grasped 
by  native  porters,  brought  to  earth,  and  carried  in  with  eager 
violence.  The  animation  of  the  city  was  intense,  and  had  in  it 
something  barbaric  and  almost  savage,  something  that  seemed 
undisciplined,  bred  of  the  orange  and  red  soil,  of  the  orange 
and  red  rocks,  of  the  snow  and  sun-smitten  mountains,  of  the 
terrific  gorges  and  precipices  which  made  the  landscape  vital 
and  almost  terrible. 

Yet  in  the  evening  light  the  distant  slopes,  the  sharply  cut 
silhouettes  of  the  hills,  held  a  strange  and  exquisitely  delicate 
serenity.  The  sky,  cloudless,  shot  with  primrose,  blue,  and 
green,  deepening  toward  the  West  into  a  red  that  was  flecked 
with  gold,  was  calm  and  almost  tender.  Nature  showed  two 
sides  of  her  soul;  but  humanity  seemed  to  respond  only  to  the 
side  that  was  fierce  and  violent. 

"What  a  setting  for  melodrama!"  repeated  Mrs.  Shiffney. 

She  sighed.  At  that  moment  the  presence  of  Henriette 
irritated  her.  She  wanted  to  be  alone,  leaning  to  watch  this 
ever-shifting  torrent  of  humanity.  This  balcony  belonged  to 
her  room.  She  had  revenged  herself  for  the  upper  berth  by 
securing  a  room  much  better  placed  than  Henriette's.  But 
if  Henriette  intended  to  live  in  it — 

Suddenly  she  drew  back  rather  sharply.  She  had  just 
seen,  in  the  midst  of  the  crowd,  the  tall  figure  of  Claude  Heath 
moving  toward  the  cafe  immediately  opposite  to  her  balcony. 

"Is  my  tea  never  coming?"  she  said.  "I  think  I  shall 
get  into  a  tea-gown  and  lie  down  a  little  before  dinner." 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        253 

Madame  Sennier  followed  her  into  the  room. 

"Till  dinner,  then,"  she  said.  "We  are  sure  to  see  them, 
I  suppose?" 

"Of  course.  Leave  the  libretto  entirely  to  me.  He  would 
be  certain  to  suspect  any  move  on  your  part." 

Madame  Sennier's  white  face  looked  very  hard  as  she 
nodded  and  left  the  room.  She  met  the  waiter  bringing  Mrs. 
Shiffney's  tea  at  the  door. 

When  she  and  the  waiter  were  both  gone  Mrs.  Shiffney  drank 
her  tea  on  the  balcony,  sitting  largely  on  a  cane  chair.  She 
felt  agreeably  excited.  Claude  Heath  had  gone  into  the  cafe 
on  the  other  side  of  the  road,  and  was  now  sitting  alone  at  a 
little  table  on  the  terrace  which  projects  into  the  Place  beneath 
the  Hotel  de  Paris.  Mrs.  Shiffney  saw  a  waiter  take  his  order 
and  bring  him  coffee,  while  a  little  Arab,  kneeling,  set  to  work 
on  his  boots. 

All  day  long  Claude  and  Gillier  had  remained  invisible. 
Mrs.  Shiffney,  Henriette,  and  Max  Elliot,  after  visiting  the 
native  quarters  in  the  morning,  had  expected  to  see  the  two 
men  at  lunch,  but  they  had  not  appeared.  Now  the  two 
women  had  just  returned  from  a  drive  round  the  city  and  to 
the  suspension  bridge  which  spans  the  terror  of  the  Gorge. 
And  here  was  Claude  Heath  just  opposite  to  Mrs.  Shiffney,  no 
doubt  serenely  unconscious  of  her  presence  in  Constantine! 
As  Mrs.  Shiffney  sipped  her  tea  and  looked  down  at  him  she 
thought  again,  "What  a  setting  for  melodrama!" 

She  was  a  very  civilized  child  of  her  age,  and  believed  that 
she  had  a  horror  of  melodrama,  looking  upon  it  as  a  degraded 
form  of  art,  or  artlessness,  which  pleased  people  whom  she 
occasionally  saw  but  would  never  know.  But  this  evening 
some  part  of  her  almost  desired  it,  not  as  a  spectacle,  but  as 
something  in  which  she  could  take  an  active  part.  In  this 
town  she  felt  adventurous.  It  was  difficult  to  look  at  this 
crowd  without  thinking  of  violent  lives  and  deeds  of  vio- 
lence. It  was  difficult  to  look  at  Claude  Heath  without  the 
desire  to  pay  him  back  here  with  interest  for  a  certain 
indifference. 

"But  I'm  not  really  melodramatic,"  said  Adelaide  Shiffney 
to  herself. 


254        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

She  could  resent,  but  she  was  not  a  very  good  hater.  She 
felt  generally  too  affairee,  too  civilized  to  hate.  In  her  heart 
she  rather  disliked  Claude  Heath  as  once  she  had  rather  liked 
him.  He  had  had  the  impertinence  and  lack  of  taste  to  decline 
her  friendship,  tacitly,  of  course,  but  quite  definitely.  She 
had  never  been  in  love  with  him.  If  she  had  been  she  would 
have  been  more  definite  with  him.  But  he  had  attracted  her 
a  good  deal;  and  she  always  resented  even  the  crossing  of  a 
whim.  Something  in  his  personality  and  something  in  his 
physique  had  appealed  to  her,  a  strangeness  and  height,  an 
imaginativeness  and  remoteness  which  features  and  gesture 
often  showed  in  despite  of  his  intention.  He  was  not  like 
everybody.  It  would  have  been  interesting  to  take  him  in 
hand.  It  had  certainly  been  irritating  to  make  no  impression 
upon  him.  And  now  he  was  married  and  living  in  a  delicious 
Arab  nest  with  that  foolish  Charmian  Mansfield.  So  Mrs. 
Shiffney  called  Charmian  at  that  moment.  Suddenly  she  felt 
rather  melancholy  and  rather  cross.  She  wanted  to  give  some- 
body a  slap.  She  put  down  her  teacup,  lit  a  cigarette,  and 
drew  her  chair  to  the  rail  of  the  balcony. 

Claude  Heath  was  sipping  his  coffee.  One  long-fingered 
musical  hand  lay  on  his  knee.  His  soft  hat  was  tilted  a  little 
forward  over  the  eyes  that  were  watching  the  crowd.  Prob- 
ably he  was  thinking  about  his  opera. 

Mrs.  Shiffney  was  incapable  of  Henriette's  hard  and  bitter 
determination.  Her  love  was  not  fastened  irrevocably  on 
any  man.  She  wished  that  it  was,  or  thought  she  did.  Such 
a  passion  must  give  a  new  interest  to  life.  Often  she  fancied 
she  was  in  love;  but  the  feeling  passed,  and  she  bemoaned  its 
passing.  Henriette  was  determined  to  keep  a  clear  field  for 
her  composer.  She  was  ready  to  be  suspicious,  to  be  jealous 
of  every  musical  shadow.  Mrs.  Shiffney  found  herself  wishing 
that  she  had  Henriette's  incentive  as  she  looked  at  Claude 
Heath.  She  could  not  see  his  face  quite  clearly.  Perhaps 
when  she  did — 

That  he  should  have  married  that  silly  Charmian  Mansfield! 
Ever  since  then  Mrs.  Shiffney  had  resolved  to  wipe  them  both 
off  her  slate — gradually.  Charmian  had  been  right  in  her 
supposition.  But  now  Mrs.  Shiffney  thought  she  was  perhaps 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        255 

on  the  edge  of  something  that  might  be  more  amusing  than  a 
mere  wiping  off  the  slate. 

Of  course  Claude  Heath  and  Gillier  would  be  at  dinner.  It 
would  be  rather  fun  to  see  Claude's  face  when  she  walked  in 
with  Henriette  and  Max  Elliot. 

She  got  up  and  stood  by  the  rail;  and  now  she  looked  down 
on  Claude  with  intention,  willing  that  he  should  look  up  at 
her.  Why  should  not  she  have  the  fun  of  seeing  his  surprise 
while  she  was  alone?  Why  should  she  share  with  Henriette? 

Without  turning  his  eyes  in  her  direction  Claude  rapped 
on  his  table  with  a  piece  of  money,  paid  a  waiter  for  his  coffee, 
got  up,  made  his  way  out  of  the  cafe,  and  mingled  with  the 
crowd.  He  did  not  come  toward  the  hotel,  but  turned  up 
the  street  leading  to  the  Governor's  palace  and  disappeared. 
Mrs.  Shiffney  noticed  an  Arab  in  a  blue  jacket  and  a  white 
burnous,  who  joined  him  as  he  left  the  cafe. 

"Local  color,  I  suppose,"  she  murmured  to  herself.  She 
wished  she  could  go  off  like  that  in  the  strange  and  violent 
crowd,  could  be  quite  independent. 

"What  a  curse  it  is  to  be  a  woman!"  she  thought. 

Then  she  resolved  after  dinner  to  go  out  for  a  stroll  with 
Claude.  Henriette  should  not  come.  If  she,  Adelaide  Shiff- 
ney, were  going  to  work  for  Henriette  she  must  be  left  to  work 
in  her  own  way.  She  thought  of  the  little  intrigue  that  was 
on  foot,  and  smiled.  Then  she  looked  out  beyond  the  Place, 
over  the  dusty  public  gardens  and  the  houses,  to  the  far-off, 
serene,  bare  mountains.  For  a  moment  their  calm  outlines 
held  her  eyes.  For  a  moment  the  clamor  of  voices  from 
below  seemed  to  die  out  of  her  ears.  Then  she  shivered, 
drew  back  into  her  room,  and  felt  for  the  knob  of  the  electric 
light.  Darkness  was  falling,  and  it  was  growing  cold  on  this 
rocky  height  which  frowned  above  the  gorge  of  the  Rummel. 

Neither  Claude  Heath  nor  Gillier  appeared  at  dinner. 
Their  absence  was  discussed  by  Mrs.  Shiffney  and  her  friends, 
and  Mrs.  Shiffney  told  them  that  she  had  seen  Claude  Heath 
that  evening  in  a  cafe.  After  dinner  Henriette  Sennier  re- 
marked discontentedly: 

"What  are  we  going  to  do?" 

"Max,  why  don't  you  get  a  guide  and  take  Henriette  out 


256        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

to  see  some  dancing?  There  is  dancing  only  five  minutes  from 
here,"  said  Mrs.  Shiffney. 

"Well,  but  you — aren't  you  coming?" 

She  had  exchanged  a  glance  with  Henriette. 

"I  must  write  some  letters.  If  I'm  not  too  long  over  them 
perhaps  I'll  follow  you.  I  can't  miss  you.  All  the  dancing  is 
in  the  same  street." 

"But  I  don't  think  there  are  any  dancing  women  here." 

"The  Kabyle  boys  dance.  Go  to  see  them,  and  I'll 
probably  follow  you." 

As  soon  as  they  were  gone  Mrs.  Shiffney  put  on  a  fur  coat, 
summoned  an  Arab  called  Amor,  who  had  already  spoken  to 
her  at  the  door  of  the  hotel,  and  said  to  him : 

"You  know  the  tall  Englishman  who  is  staying  here?" 

"The  one  who  takes  Aloui  as  guide?" 

"Perhaps.    I  don't  know.    But  he  is  fond  of  music;  he — " 

"It  is  Aloui's  Englishman,"  interrupted  Amor,  calmly. 

"Where  does  he  go  at  night?  He's  a  friend  of  mine.  I 
should  like  to  meet  him." 

"He  might  be  with  Said  Hitani." 

"Where  is  that?" 

"  If  madame  does  not  mind  a  little  walk — " 

"Take  me  there.    Is  it  far? " 

"It  is  on  the  edge  of  the  town,  close  to  the  wall.  When 
Said  Hitani  plays  he  likes  to  go  there.  He  is  growing  old. 
He  does  not  want  to  play  where  everybody  can  hear.  Madame 
has  a  family  in  England?" 

Mrs.  Shiffney  satisfied  Amor's  curiosity  as  they  walked 
through  the  crowded  streets  till  they  came  to  the  outskirts  of 
the  city.  The  stars  were  out,  but  there  was  no  moon.  The 
road  ran  by  the  city  wall.  Far  down  below,  in  the  arms  of  the 
darkness,  lay  the  gorge,  from  which  rose  faintly  the  sound  of 
water;  lay  the  immense  stretches  of  yellow-brown  and  red- 
brown  country  darkened  here  and  there  with  splashes  of  green ; 
the  dim  plantations,  the  cascades  which  fall  to  the  valley  of 
Sidi  Imcin;  the  long  roads,  like  flung-out  ribands,  winding 
into  the  great  distances  which  suggest  eternal  things.  From 
the  darkness,  as  from  the  mouth  of  a  mighty  cavern,  rose  a 
wind,  not  strong,  very  pure,  very  keen,  which  seemed  dashed 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        257 

with  the  spray  of  water.  Now  and  then  an  Arab  passed 
muffled  in  burnous  and  hood,  a  fold  of  linen  held  to  his  mouth. 
The  noise  of  the  city  was  hushed. 

Presently  Amor  stood  still. 
1     "F^7<z  Said  Hitani!" 

Mrs.  Shiffney  heard  in  the  distance  a  sound  of  music. 
Several  instruments  combined  to  make  it,  but  the  voice  of  a 
flute  was  dominant  among  them.  Light,  sweet,  delicate, 
it  came  to  her  in  the  night  like  a  personality  full  of  odd 
magic,  full  of  small  and  subtle  surprises,  intricate,  gay,  and 
sad. 

"Said  Hitani!"  she  said.  "He's  delicious!  Take  me  to 
him,  Amor." 

She  knew  at  once  that  he  was  the  flute-player. 

They  walked  on,  and  soon  came  to  a  patch  of  light  on  the 
empty  road.  This  was  shed  by  the  lamps  of  the  cafe  from 
which  the  music  issued.  Under  the  two  windows,  which  were 
protected  by  wire  and  by  iron  bars,  five  Arabs  were  squatting, 
immersed  in  a  sea  of  garments  in  which  their  figures  and  even 
their  features  were  lost.  Only  their  black  eyes  looked  out, 
gazing  steadily  into  the  darkness.  A  big  man,  with  bare  legs 
and  a  spotted  turban,  came  to  the  door  of  the  cafe  to  invite 
them  to  go  in;  but  Mrs.  Shiffney  refused  by  a  gesture. 

"In  a  minute!"  she  said  to  Amor. 

Amor  spoke  in  Arabic  to  the  attendant,  who  at  once  re- 
turned to  the  coffee  niche.  Within  the  music  never  ceased, 
and  now  singing  voices  alternated  with  the  instruments.  Mrs. 
Shiffney  kept  away  from  the  door  and  looked  into  the  room 
through  the  window  space  next  to  it. 

She  saw  a  long  and  rather  narrow  chamber,  with  a  paved 
floor,  strewn  with  clean  straw  mats,  blue-green  walls,  and  an 
orange-colored  ceiling.  Close  to  the  door  was  the  coffee 
niche.  At  the  opposite  end  of  the  room  five  musicians  were 
squatting,  four  in  a  semicircle  facing  the  coffee  niche,  the 
fifth  alone,  almost  facing  them.  This  fifth  was  Said  Hitani, 
the  famous  flute-player  of  Constantine — a  man  at  this  time 
sixty-three  years  old.  In  front  of  him  was  a  flat  board,  on 
which  lay  two  freshly  rolled  cigarettes  and  several  cigarette 
ends.  Now  and  then  he  took  his  flute  from  his  lips,  replaced 

17 


258        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

it  with  a  lighted  cigarette,  smoked  for  a  moment,  then  swiftly 
renewed  his  strange  love-song,  playing  with  a  virile  vigor  as 
well  as  with  airy  daintiness  and  elaborate  grace.  Of  his  com- 
panions, one  played  a  violin,  held  upright  by  the  left  hand,  with 
its  end  resting  on  his  stockinged  foot;  the  second  a  species 
of  large  guitar;  the  third  a  derbouka;  and  the  fourth  a  tar  ah, 
or  native  tambourine,  ornamented  with  ten  little  discs  of  brass, 
which  made  a  soft  clashing  sound  when  shaken.  On  the  left 
of  the  room,  down  one  side,  squatted  a  row  of  Arabs  with 
coffee-cups  and  cigarettes.  By  the  door  two  more  were  playing 
a  game  of  draughts.  And  opposite  to  the  windows,  on  an 
Oriental  rug,  the  long  figure  of  Claude  Heath  was  stretched 
out.  He  lay  with  his  hat  tilted  to  the  left  over  one  temple,  his 
cheek  on  his  left  hand,  listening  intently  to  the  music.  On  a 
wooden  board  beside  him  was  some  music  paper,  and  now  and 
then  with  a  stylograph  he  jotted  down  some  notes.  He  looked 
both  emotional  and  thoughtful.  Often  his  imaginative  eyes 
rested  on  the  small  and  hunched-up  figure  of  Said  Hitani, 
dressed  in  white,  black,  and  gold,  with  a  hood  drawn  over  the 
head.  Now  and  then  he  looked  toward  the  window,  and  it 
seemed  to  Mrs.  Shiffney  then  that  his  eyes  met  hers.  But  he 
saw  nothing,  except  perhaps  some  Eastern  vision  summoned 
up  by  his  lit  imagination. 

The  music  very  gradually  quickened  and  grew  louder, 
became  steadily  more  masculine,  powerful,  and  fierce,  till  it 
sounded  violent.  The  volume  of  tone  produced  by  the  players 
astonished  Mrs.  Shiffney.  The  wild  vagaries  of  the  flute 
seemed  presently  to  be  taking  place  in  her  brain.  She  drew 
close  to  the  window,  put  her  hands  on  the  bars.  At  her  feet 
the  crouching  Arabs  never  stirred.  Behind  her  the  cold  wind 
came  up  from  the  gorge  and  the  great  open  country  with  the 
sound  of  the  rushing  water. 

At  that  moment  she  had  the  thing  that  she  believed  she 
lived  for — a  really  keen  sensation. 

Suddenly,  when  the  music  had  become  almost  intolerably 
exciting,  when  the  players  seemed  possessed,  and  noise  and 
swiftness  to  rush  together  like  foes  to  the  attack,  the  flute 
wavered,  ran  up  to  a  height,  cried  out  like  a  thing  martyred; 
the  violin  gave  forth  a  thin  scream;  on  the  derbouka  the  brown 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        259 

'fingers  of  the  player  pattered  with  abrupt  feebleness;  the 
guitar  died  away;  the  little  brass  discs  shivered  and  fell  to- 
gether. Another  thin  cry  from  the  flute  upon  some  unknown 
height,  and  there  was  silence,  while  Claude  wrote  furiously, 
and  the  musicians  began  to  smoke. 

"Now  I'll  go  in!"  said  Mrs.  Shiffney  to  Amor. 

He  led  the  way  and  she  followed.    Claude  glanced  up, 
stared  for  a  moment,  then  sprang  up. 

"Mrs.  Shiffney!" 

His  voice  was  almost  stern. 

"Mrs.  Shiffney!"  he  repeated. 

"  Come  to  hear  your  music,  for  I  know  they  are  all  playing 
only  for  you  and  the  opera." 

Her  strong,  almost  masculine  hand  lingered  in  his,  and  how 
could  he  let  it  go  without  impoliteness? 

"Aren't  they?" 

"  I  suppose  so." 

"It's  wonderful  the  way  they  play.    Said  Hitani  is  an 
artist." 

"You  know  his  name?" 

"And  I  must  know  him.    May  I  stay  a  little?" 

"Of  course." 

He  looked  round  for  a  seat. 

"No,  the  rug!"  she  said. 

And,  despite  her  bulk,  she  sank  down  with  a  swift  ease  that 
was  almost  Oriental. 

"Now  please  introduce  me  to  Said  Hitani!" 

Till  late  in  the  night  she  stayed  between  the  blue-green 
walls,  listening  to  the  vehement  voices  and  to  the  instruments, 
following  all  the  strange  journeys  of  Said  Hitani's  flute.  She 
was  genuinely  fascinated,  and  this  fact  made  her  fascinating. 
As  she  had  caught  at  Max  Elliot  that  day  when  he  asked  her, 
against  his  intention,  to  meet  Claude  Heath,  so  now  she  caught 
at  Claude  Heath  himself.  She  had  come  to  the  cafe  with  a 
purpose,  and,  as  she  forgot  it,  she  carried  it  out.  Never  before 
had  Claude  understood  completely  why  she  had  gained  her 
position  in  London  and  Paris,  realized  fully  her  fascination. 
Her  delightful  naturalness,  her  pleasure,  her  almost  boyish 
gaiety,  her  simplicity,  her  humor  took  him  captive  for  the 


260        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

moment.  She  explained  that  she  had  left  her  companions  and 
stolen  away  to  enjoy  Constantine  alone. 

"And  now  I'm  interrupting  you.  But  you  must  forgive 
me  just  for  this  one  night!" 

Through  Amor,  who  acted  as  interpreter,  she  carried  on  a 
lively  intercourse  with  Said  Hitani.  The  other  musicians 
smiled,  but  seldom  spoke,  and  only  among  themselves.  But 
Said  Hitani,  the  great  artist  of  his  native  city,  a  man  famous 
far  and  wide  among  the  Arabs,  was  infinitely  diverting  and 
descriptive  in  talk  even  as  when  he  gave  himself  to  the  flute. 
With  an  animation  that  was  youthful  he  described  the  meaning 
of  each  new  song.  He  had  two  flutes  on  which  he  played  alter- 
nately— "  Mousou  et  Madame,"  he  called  them.  And  he  knew, 
so  he  declared,  over  a  hundred  songs.  Mrs.  Shiffney,  speaking 
to  him  always  through  Amor,  told  him  of  London,  and  what  a 
sensation  he  and  his  companions  would  make  there  in  the  decor 
of  a  Moorish  cafe.  Said  Hitani  pulled  his  little  gray  beard 
with  his  delicate  hands,  swayed  to  and  fro,  and  smiled.  Then 
sharply  he  uttered  a  torrent  of  words  which  seemed  almost  to 
fight  their  way  out  of  some  chamber  in  his  narrow  throat. 

"Said  Hitani  says  you  have  only  to  send  money  and  the 
address  and  they  are  all  coming  whenever  you  like.  They  are 
very  pleased  to  come." 

At  this  point  one  of  the  musicians,  a  fair  man  with  pale 
eyes  who  played  the  tarah,  interposed  a  remark  which  was 
uttered  with  great  seriousness. 

"  Can  they  go  to  London  on  camels,  he  wishes  to  know," 
observed  Amor  gently. 

Said  Hitani  waited  for  Mrs.  Shiffney's  answer  with  a  slightly 
judicial  air,  moving  his  head  as  if  in  approval  of  the  tarah- 
player's  forethought. 

"I'm  afraid  they  can't." 

The  tarah-player  spoke  again. 

"He  says,  can  they  go  on  donkeys?" 

"No.    It  is  further  than  Paris,  tell  him." 

"Then  they  must  go  on  the  sea.    Paris  is  across  the  sea." 

"Yes,  they  will  have  to  take  a  steamer." 

At  this  juncture  it  was  found  that  the  tarah-player  would 
not  be  of  the  party. 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        261 

"He  says  he  would  be  very  sick,  and  no  man  can  play 
when  he  is  sick." 

"What  will  Madame  pay?"  interposed  Said  Hitani. 

Mrs.  Shiffney  declared  seriously  that  she  would  think  it 
over,  make  a  calculation,  and  Amor  should  convey  her  decision 
as  to  price  to  him  on  the  morrow. 

All  seemed  well  satisfied  with  this.  And  the  tarah-player 
remarked,  after  a  slight  pause,  that  he  would  wait  to  know 
about  the  price  before  he  decided  whether  he  would  be  too  sick 
to  play  in  London.  Then,  at  a  signal  from  Said  Hitani,  they 
all  took  up  their  instruments  and  played  and  sang  a  garden 
song  called  Mabouf,  describing  how  a  Sheik  and  his  best  loved 
wife  walked  in  a  great  garden  and  sang  one  against  the 
other. 

"It  has  been  quite  delicious!"  said  Mrs.  Shiffney  to  Claude, 
when  at  last  the  song  Au  Revoir,  tumultuously  brilliant  with 
a  tremendous  crescendo  at  the  close,  had  been  played,  and  with 
many  salaams  and  good  wishes  the  musicians  had  departed. 

"I  love  their  playing,"  Claude  answered.  "But  really 
you  shouldn't  have  paid  them.  I  have  arranged  with  Hitani 
to  come  every  evening." 

"Oh,  but  I  paid  them  for  wanting  to  know  whether  they 
could  go  to  London  on  camels.  What  a  success  your  opera 
ought  to  be  if  you  have  got  a  fine  libretto." 

They  were  just  leaving  the  cafe. 

"Do  let  us  stand  by  the  wall  for  a  minute,"  she  added. 
"By  that  tree.  It  is  so  wonderful  here." 

Claude's  guide,  Aloui,  had  come  to  accompany  him  home, 
and  was  behind  with  Amor.  They  stayed  in  the  doorway  of 
the  cafe.  Mrs.  Shiffney  and  Claude  leaned  on  the  wall,  looking 
down  into  the  vast  void  from  which  rose  the  cool  wind  and  the 
sound  of  water. 

"What  would  I  give  to  be  a  creative  artist!"  she  said. 
"That  must  add  so  much  meaning  to  all  this.  Do  you  know 
how  fortunate  you  are?  Do  you  know  you  possess  the  earth?  " 

The  sable  sleeve  of  her  coat  touched  Claude's  arm  and  hand. 
Her  deep  voice  sounded  warm  and  full  of  genuine  feeling.  A 
short  time  ago,  when  she  had  come  into  the  cafe,  he  had  been 
both  astonished  and  vexed  to  see  her.  Now  he  knew  that  he 


262        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

had  enjoyed  this  evening  more  than  any  other  evening  that  he 
had  spent  in  Constantine. 

"But  there  are  plenty  of  drawbacks,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  no,  not  real  ones!  After  this  evening — well,  I  shall 
wish  for  your  success.  Till  now  I  didn't  care  in  the  least. 
Indeed,  I  believe  I  hoped  you  never  would  have  a  great 
success." 

She  moved  slightly  nearer  to  him. 

"Did  you?"  he  said. 

"  Yes.  You've  always  been  so  horrid  to  me,  when  I  always 
wanted  to  be  nice  to  you." 

"Oh,  but—" 

"Don't  let  us  talk  about  it.  What  does  it  matter  now? 
I  thought  I  might  have  done  something  for  you  once,  have 
helped  you  on  a  little,  perhaps.  But  now  you  are  married  and 
settled  and  will  make  your  own  way.  I  feel  it.  You  don't 
want  anyone's  help.  You've  come  away  from  us  all,  and  how 
right  you've  been.  And  Charmian's  done  the  right  thing,  too, 
giving  up  all  our  nonsense  for  your  work.  Sacrifice  means 
success.  You  are  bound  to  have  it.  I  feel  you  are  going  to. 
Ah,  you  don't  know  how  I  sometimes  long  to  be  linked,  really 
linked,  to  the  striving,  the  abnegation,  the  patience,  the  tri- 
umph of  a  man  of  genius!  People  envy  my  silly  little  position, 
as  they  call  it.  And  what  is  it  worth?  And  yet  I  do  know,  I 
have  an  instinct,  a  flair,  for  the  real  thing.  I'm  ignorant.  I 
can  dare  to  acknowledge  it  to  you.  But  I  can  tell  what  is 
good  and  bad,  and  sometimes  even  why  a  thing  is  good.  I'm 
led  away,  of  course.  In  a  silly  social  life  like  mine  everybody 
is  led  away.  We  can't  help  it.  But  I  could  have  been  worth 
something  in  the  art  life  of  a  big  man,  if  I'd  loved  him." 

How  soft  sable  is  against  a  hand! 

"I'm  sure  you  could,"  Claude  said. 

"And  as  it  is—" 

She  stopped  speaking  abruptly.  Then  with  a  marked 
change  of  voice  she  said: 

"Oh,  do  forgive  me  for  committing  the  unpardonable  sin — 
babbling  about  myself!  You're  the  only  person  I  have  ever — 
forget  all  about  it,  won't  you?  I  don't  know  why  I  did  it. 
It  was  the  music,  I  suppose,  and  the  strangeness  of  this  place. 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        263 

and  thinking  of  your  work  and  your  hopes  for  the  future.  It 
made  me  wish  I  had  some  too,  either  for  myself  or  for — for 
someone  like  you." 

As  if  irresistibly  governed  by  feeling  her  voice  had  again 
changed,  become  once  more  warm  as  with  emotion.  But 
now  she  drew  herself  up  a  little  and  laughed. 

"Don't  be  afraid!  It's  over!  But  you  have  had  a  glimpse 
no  one  else  has  ever  had,  and  I  know  you'll  keep  it  to  yourself. 
Let's  talk  of  something  else — anything.  Tell  me  something 
about  your  libretto,  if  you  care  to." 

As  they  walked  slowly  toward  the  heart  of  the  city,  fol- 
lowed by  the  two  Arabs,  she  took  Claude's  arm,  very  naturally, 
as  if  half  for  protection,  half  because  it  was  dark  and  false  steps 
were  possible. 

And  he  told  her  a  good  deal,  finally  a  great  deal,  about  the 
libretto. 

"It  sounds  wonderful!"  she  said.  "I'm  so  glad!  But  may 
I  give  you  a  little  bit  of  advice?" 

"Yes,  do." 

"Don't  say  anything  about  it  to  Henriette — Madame 
Sennier." 

"No.     But—" 

"Why  not?    I  scarcely  know.    My  instinct!    Don't!" 

"I  won't,"  Claude  said. 

"I'd  give  anything  to  read  it.  But  if  I  were  you  I  wouldn't 
let  anyone  read  it.  As  you  probably  know,  I'm  in  half  the 
secrets  of  the  artistic  world,  and  always  have  been.  But  there 
isn't  one  woman  in  a  hundred  who  can  be  trusted  to  hold  her 
tongue.  Is  this  the  hotel?  Good-night.  Yes,  isn't  it  a 
delicious  coat?  Bonne  nuit,  Amor I  %.  demain!" 

A  minute  later  Mrs.  Shiffney  tapped  at  Henriette's  door, 
which  was  immediately  opened. 

"It  is  all  right,"  she  whispered.  "I  shall  have  the  libretto 
to-morrow." 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

TWO  days  later  Mrs.  Shiffney  slipped  Gillier's  libretto  sur- 
reptitiously into  Claude's  hand. 

"It's  splendid!"  she  almost  whispered.     "With  such  a 
libretto  you  can't  fail." 

They  were  in  the  deserted  salon  of  the  hotel,  among  arm- 
chairs, albums,  and  old  French  picture-papers.  Mrs.  Shiffney 
looked  toward  the  door. 

"Don't  let  anyone  know  I've  read  it— especially  Henriette. 
She's  a  dear  and  a  great  friend  of  mine,  but,  all  the  same,  she'd 
be  horribly  jealous.  There's  only  one  thing  about  the  libretto 
that  frightens  me." 

"What  is  it?    Do  tell  me-!" 

"Having  so  many  Easterns  in  it.  If  by  any  chance  you 
should  ever  want  to  produce  your  opera — "  She  hesitated, 
with  her  eyes  fixed  upon  him.  "In  America,  I  fancy — no, 
I  think  I'm  being  absurd." 

"But  what  do  you  mean?  Do  tell  me!  Not  that  there's 
the  slightest  chance  yet  of  my  opera  ever  being  done  any- 
where." 

"Well,  it's  only  that  Americans  do  so  hate  what  they  call 
color." 

"Oh,  but  that  is  only  in  negroes!" 

"Is  it?  Then  I'm  talking  nonsense!  I'm  so  glad!  Not 
a  word  to  Henriette!  Hush!  Here  she  is!" 

At  that  moment  the  door  opened  and  the  white  face  of 
Madame  Sennier  looked  in. 

"What  are  you  two  doing  here?    Where  is  Max?" 

"  Gone  to  arrange  about  the  sleeping-car." 

Claude  slipped  the  libretto  into  the  pocket  of  his  jacket.  In 
London  he  had  been  rather  inclined  to  like  Madame  Sennier. 
In  Constantine  he  felt  ill  at  ease  with  her.  He  detected  the 
secret  hostility  which  she  scarcely  troubled  to  conceal,  though 
she  covered  it  with  an  air  of  careless  indifference.  Now  and 
then  a  corner  of  the  covering  slipped  down,  leaving  a  surface 

264 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        265 

exposed,  \vhich,  to  Claude,  seemed  ugly.  To-day  at  this 
moment  she  seemed  unable  to  mask  entirely  some  angiy  feeling 
which  possessed  her.  How  different  she  was  from  Mrs.  Shiff- 
ney!  Claude  had  enjoyed  Mrs.  Shiffney's  visit.  She  had 
rescued  him  from  his  solitude  with  Gillier — a  solitude  which  he 
had  endured  for  the  sake  of  the  opera,  but  which  had  been 
odious  to  him.  She  had  warmed  him  by  her  apparent  en- 
thusiasm, by  her  sympathy.  He  had  been  obliged  to  acknowl- 
edge that  she  was  very  forgiving.  He  had  certainly  not 
been  "nice"  to  her  in  London.  Her  simplicity  in  telling  him 
she  had  felt  his  conduct,  her  sweetness  in  being  so  ready  to 
forget  it,  to  enter  into  his  expectations,  to  wish  him  well, 
had  fascinated  him,  roused  his  chivalry.  But  most  of  all  had 
her  few  words  by  the  wall  after  Said  Hitani's  music  touched 
him,  been  instrumental  in  bringing  him  nearer  to  her. 

"She  showed  me  a  bit  of  her  real  self,"  he  thought.  "And 
she  was  not  sorry  afterward  that  she  had  shown  it  to  me." 

He  had  made  her  a  return  for  this,  the  return  which  she 
had  wanted;  but  to  Claude  it  seemed  no  return  at  all. 

"You  are  really  going  away  to-night?"  he  said  now.  And 
there  was  a  note  of  regret  in  his  voice  which  was  not  missed  by 
her. 

"I  can't  possibly  leave  Jacques  alone  any  longer,"  said 
Madame  Sennier.  "  And  what  have  we  to  do  here ?  We  aren't 
getting  local  color  for  an  opera." 

"No,  no;  of  course,  you  want  to  get  away!"  said  Claude 
quickly,  and  stiffening  with  constraint. 

"I  should  love  to  stay  on.  This  place  fascinates  me  by 
its  strangeness,  its  marvellous  position,"  said  Mrs.  Shiffney. 

She  looked  at  Claude. 

"But  I  suppose  we  must  go  back.  Will  you  take  me  for  a 
last  walk  before  tea?" 

"Of  course." 

Madame  Sennier  passed  the  tip  of  her  tongue  across  her 
scarlet  lips. 

"Over  the  bridge  and  up  into  the  pine-wood?" 

"Wherever  you  like." 

At  this  moment  Armand  Gillier  walked  brusquely  into  the 
room.  Mrs.  Shiffney  turned  to  Henriette. 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

"We'll  leave  Monsieur  Gillier  to  take  care  of  you." 

Henriette's  lips  tightened.     Gillier  said: 

"  Bien,  madame!" 

As  Mrs.  Shiffney  and  Claude  left  theToom  Gillier  bowed  with 
very  formal  politeness.  The  door  shut.  After  a  pause  Gillier 
said: 

"You  go  away  to-night,  madame?" 

Madame  Sennier  sat  down  on  a  settee  by  a  round  table  on 
which  lay  several  copies  of  L' Illustration,  in  glazed  black  covers, 
La  Depeche  Algerienne,  and  a  guide  to  Constantine. 

She  had  been  awake  most  of  the  previous  night,  with  jealous 
care  studying  the  libretto  Gillier  had  sold  to  Claude,  which  had 
been  put  into  her  hands  by  Mrs.  Shiffney.  At  once  she  had 
recognized  its  unusual  merit.  She  had  in  a  high  degree  the 
faculty,  possessed  by  many  clever  Frenchwomen,  of  detecting 
and  appraising  the  value  of  a  work  of  art.  She  was  furious 
because  Gillier's  libretto  had  never  been  submitted  to  her  hus- 
band; but  she  could  not  say  all  that  was  in  her  mind.  She  and 
Adelaide  Shiffney  had  been  frank  with  each  other  in  the  matter, 
and  she  had  no  intention  of  making  any  mistake  because  she 
was  angry. 

"We  haven't  much  time  to  spare.  Jacques  has  to  get  on 
with  his  new  opera." 

Gillier  sat  down  on  a  chair  with  a  certain  cold  and  re- 
luctant but  definite  politeness.  His  look  and  manner  said: 
"I  cannot,  of  course,  leave  this  lady  whom  I  hate." 

"He  is  a  great  man  now.  I  congratulate  you  on  his 
success." 

"Jacques  was  always  a  great  man,  but  he  didn't  quite 
understand  it." 

"You  enlightened  him,  madame." 

"Exactly." 

"That  was  very  clever  of  you." 

"It  wasn't  stupid.  But  I  don't  happen  to  be  a  stupid 
woman."  Her  yellow  eyes  narrowed. 

"I  know  how  to  detect  quality.    And  I  suppose  you  do?" 

"Why,  madame?" 

"You  tried  to  sell  libretti  to  my  husband  before  he  was 
famous." 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        267 

"And  failed." 

"Yes.  But  now  I'm  glad  to  know  you  have  succeeded 
with  another  man  who  is  not  famous  yet." 

Gillier  laid  his  right  hand  down  on  one  of  the  glazed  black 
covers  of  V 'Illustration. 

"You  do  not  believe  in  my  talent,  madame.  I  cannot 
understand  why  you  should  be  interested  in  such  a  matter." 

"  You  make  the  mistake  of  supposing  that  a  talented  man 
can  never  be  immature.  What  you  offered  to  my  husband 
was  immature;  but  I  always  knew  you  had  talent." 

"Indeed?    You  never  told  me  so  that  I  remember." 

"You  appeared  to  be  fully  aware  of  it." 

Gillier  made  a  fist  of  his  hand  on  the  cover.  He  wished 
Jacques  Sennier  were  setting  the  libretto  he  had  sold  to  Claude 
Heath,  and  Madame  Sennier  wished  exactly  the  same  thing. 
He  did  not  know  her  thought;  but  she  divined  his.  With  all 
her  soul,  greedy  for  her  Jacques  and  for  herself,  she  coveted 
that  libretto.  She  almost  hated  Claude  Heath  for  possessing 
it.  And  now,  as  she  sat  opposite  to  Gillier,  with  the  round 
table  between  them,  always  alert  for  intrigue,  she  began  to 
wonder  whether  in  truth  the  libretto  was  irrevocably  lost  to 
them. 

"Weren't  you?"  she  said,  fixing  her  unflinching  eyes  upon 
him. 

"I  knew  I  was  not  quite  such  a  fool  as  your  husband 
certainly  thought  me." 

"Jacques  is  a  mere  baby  outside  of  his  art." 

"Si?" 

"That  is  why  I  have  to  think  for  him  very  often.  Which 
of  the  libretti  has  Mr.  Heath  bought?" 

"It  is  not  one  of  those  I  had  the  honor  of  showing  to 
Monsieur  Sennier." 

"Really?  You  have  written  another  specially  for  Mr. 
Heath?" 

"I  wrote  another  to  please  myself.  His  wife  saw  it  and 
took  it  to  him.  He  was  so  foolish  as  to  think  it  good  enough 
to  buy." 

"Let  us  hope  his  music  will  be  good  enough  to  produce  on 
the  stage." 


268        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

Gillier  looked  very  sharply  at  her,  and  began  to  tug  at  his 
moustache;  but  he  said  nothing.  After  a  moment  Madame 
Sennier  said,  with  a  change  of  tone  and  manner  that  seemed 
to  indicate  an  intention  to  be  more  friendly: 

"When  you  write  another  libretto,  why  not  let  me  see  it?" 

"You  desire  to  inflict  a  fourth  rejection  upon  me,  madame?" 

"If  you  like,  I'll  tell  you  the  only  thing  I  desire,"  she 
replied,  with  a  sort  of  brutal  frankness  well  calculated  to  appeal 
to  his  rough  character.  "It  has  nothing  to  do  with  you.  I 
haven't  your  interests  at  my  heart.  Why  should  I  bother 
about  them?  All  I  want  is  to  get  something  fine  for  my  hus- 
band when  a  chance  arises.  I  know  what's  good  better  than 
you  do,  my  friend.  You  showed  me  three  libretti  that  didn't 
do.  Show  me  one  that  does  do,  and  I'll  pay  you  a  price  that 
will  astonish  you." 

Gillier's  large  eyes  shone. 

"How  much  would  you  pay?" 

"Show  me  a  fine  libretto!" 

"Tell  me  how  much  you'd  pay." 

She  laughed. 

"Five  times  as  much  as  anyone  else  offered  you.  But  you 
would  have  to  prove  the  offer  to  my  satisfaction." 

Gillier  fidgeted  on  his  chair,  took  hold  of  the  Dep&che 
Algerienne,  and  began  carefully  to  fold  it  into  pleats. 

"I  should  want  a  royalty,"  he  said,  keeping  his  shining 
eyes  on  her. 

"If  I  were  satisfied  I  would  see  that  you  got  it." 

There  was  a  long  silence,  during  which  they  looked  at  each 
other. 

Gillier  was  puzzled.  He  did  not  believe  Claude  Heath  had 
shown  the  libretto  to  her.  Yet  she  was  surely  prompted  now 
by  some  very  definite  purpose.  He  could  not  guess  what  it 
was.  At  last  he  looked  down  at  the  paper  he  was  folding 
mechanically. 

"I  haven't  got  anything  to  sell  at  present,"  he  almost 
growled,  in  a  very  low  voice. 

"That's  a  pity.  We  must  hope  for  the  future.  There  is 
no  reason  why  you  and  I  should  be  mortal  enemies  since  you 
haven't  had  a  chance  to  murder  my  poor  old  cabbage." 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        269 

"He's  a  coward,"  said  Gillier. 

"  Of  course  he  is.  And  I'm  very  thankful  for  it.  Cowards 
live  long." 

She  got  up  from  the  settee.  Gillier,  returning  to  his  varnish, 
sprang  up,  dropping  the  paper,  and  opened  the  door. 

"Don't  forget  what  I  said,"  she  remarked  as  she  went  out. 
"Five  times  the  price  anyone  else  offers,  on  account  of  a 
royalty  to  be  fixed  by  mutual  agreement.  But  it  would  have 
to  be  a  libretto  numero  un." 

He  looked  at  her  but  did  not  say  a  word. 

When  she  was  gone  he  sat  down  again  by  the  round  table 
and  stared  at  the  cloth,  with  his  head  bent  and  his  muscular, 
large-boned  arms  laid  one  upon  the  other. 

And  presently  he  swore  under  his  breath. 

Meanwhile  Mrs.  Shiffney  and  Claude  were  making  their  way 
through  the  crowded  and  noisy  street  toward  the  unfinished 
Suspension  Bridge  which  spans  the  gorge,  linking  the  city  to 
the  height  which  is  crowned  by  the  great  hospital.  Beyond 
the  hospital,  opposite  to  the  Grand  Rocher,  a  terrific  precipice 
of  rock  beneath  which  a  cascade  leaps  down  to  the  valley  where 
lie  the  baths  of  Sidi  Imcin,  is  a  wood  of  fir-trees  commanding 
an  immense  view.  This  was  the  objective  of  their  walk.  The 
sun  shone  warmly,  brightly,  over  the  roaring  city,  perched  on  its 
savage  height  and  crowding  down  to  its  precipices,  as  if  seeking 
for  destruction.  Clarions  sounded  from  the  woods,  where 
hidden  soldiers  were  carrying  out  evolutions.  Now  and  then  a 
dull  roar  in  the  distance,  like  the  noise  of  a  far-off  earthquake, 
proclaimed  the  activities  of  men  among  the  rocks.  From  the 
bazaars  in  the  maze  of  covered  alleys  that  stretch  down  the  hill 
below  the  Place  du  Chameau,  from  the  narrow  and  slippery 
pavements  that  wind  between  the  mauve  and  the  pale  yellow- 
house  fronts,  came  incessant  cries  and  the  long  and  dull  mur- 
mur of  voices.  Bellebelles  were  singing  everywhere  in  their 
tiny  cages,  heedless  of  their  captivity.  On  tiny  wooden  tables 
and  stands  before  the  insouciant  workers  at  trades,  and  the  in- 
different sellers  of  goods,  were  set  vases  of  pale  yellow  jonquils. 
Round  the  minarets  fluttered  the  pigeons.  And  again,  float- 
ing across  the  terrific  gorge,  came  the  brave  notes  of  the 
military  clarions. 


270        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

"There  is  something  here  which  I  have  never  felt  in  any 
other  place,"  said  Mrs.  Shiffney  to  Claude.  "A  peculiar  wild- 
ness.  It  makes  one  want  to  cry  out.  The  rocks  seem  to  have 
life  almost  under  one's  feet.  And  th&  water  in  that  terrible 
gorge,  that's  like  a  devil's  moat  round  the  city,  is  more  alive 
than  water  in  other  places.  It's  so  strange  to  have  known  you 
in  Mullion  House  and  to  find  you  here.  How  eternally  in- 
teresting life  is!" 

She  did  not  always  think  so,  but  at  this  moment  she  really 
found  life  interesting. 

"I  shall  never  forget  this  little  time!"  she  added.  "I 
haven't  enjoyed  myself  so  much  for  years.  And  now  it's 
nearly  over.  What  a  bore!" 

Claude  felt  exhilarated  too.  The  day  was  so  bright, 
so  alive,  seemed  full  of  wildness  and  gaiety  and  lusty 
freedom. 

"Let  us  enjoy  what  is  left!"  he  said. 

She  stole  a  side  glance  at  him  as  he  swung  along  by  her. 
How  would  it  be  to  be  married  to  a  man  like  him — a  man  with 
his  way  to  make? 

They  came  down  to  the  bridge,  escaping  from  the  bustle  of 
the  city.  From  the  fir  woods  the  clarions  sounded  louder, 
calling  to  each  other  like  bold  and  triumphant  voices. 

"Have  you  got  those  in  your  opera?"  she  asked  him. 

"I  shall  have  them." 

"Of  course." 

They  talked  a  little  about  the  libretto  as  they  crossed  the 
bridge,  with  the  sound  of  the  water  in  their  ears. 

"It  is  good  to  be  out  of  the  city!"  Claude  said,  as  they 
came  to  the  rubble  of  the  unfinished  track  on  the  farther  side, 
where  Arabs  worked  under  the  supervision  of  a  French  overseer. 
"I  did  not  know  you  were  a  walker." 

"I  don't  think  you  knew  very  much  about  me." 

"That's  quite  true.    Where  do  you  wish  to  go?" 

''Anywhere — to  the  left.  Let  us  sit  on  a  rock  under  the 
trees  and  look  at  the  view." 

"Can  you  get  up  here?" 

"If  you  give  me  your  hand." 

They  walked  a  little  way  in  the  shadow  of  the  fir-trees, 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        271 

leaving  the  hospital  on  their  right.  The  plantation  was  almost 
deserted.  The  soldiers  were  evidently  retiring,  for  the  clarions 
sounded  more  distant  now.  Here  and  there  the  figure  of  an 
Arab  was  visible  sauntering  slowly  among  the  trees,  with  the 
smoke  of  his  cigarette  dispersing  above  him.  Some  young 
Jews  went  by,  holding  hands,  laughing  and  talking.  They 
sent  glances  of  hard  inquiry  at  Mrs.  Shiffney's  broad  figure  from 
their  too  intelligent  eyes.  Soon  their  thin  forms  vanished 
among  the  gray  trunks. 

"Shall  we  sit  there?"  asked  Claude. 

"Yes;  just  in  the  sun." 

"Oh,  but  you  wanted — " 

"No,  let  us  sit  in  the  sun." 

She  opened  her  green  parasol. 

Almost  at  the  edge  of  the  cliff,  which  descended  steeply  to 
the  high  road  to  Philippeville,  was  a  flat  ledge  of  rock  warmed 
by  the  sunbeams. 

"It's  perfect  here,"  she  said,  sitting  down.  "And  what 
a  view!" 

They  were  exactly  opposite  to  the  terrific  Grand  Rocher,  a 
gray  and  pale  yellow  precipice,  with  the  cascades  and  the 
Grand  Moulin  at  its  foot,  the  last  houses  of  the  city  perched 
upon  its  summit  in  the  sky. 

"And  to  think  that  women  have  been  flung  from  there!" 
said  Claude,  clasping  his  hands  round  his  knees. 

"  Unfaithful  women !  Rather  hard  on  them !"  she  answered. 
"If  London  husbands — "  She  stopped.  "No  don't  let  us 
think  of  London.  And  yet  I  suppose  you  loved  it  in  that 
little  house  of  yours?" 

"I  think  I  did." 

"Don't  you  ever  regret  that  little  house?" 

She  saw  his  eyebrows  move  downward. 

"Oh,  I — I'm  very  fond  of  Djenan-el-Maqui." 

"And  no  wonder!  Only  you  seemed  so  much  a  part  of 
your  London  home.  You  seemed  to  belong  to  it.  There  was 
an  odd  little  sense  of  mystery." 

"Was  there?" 

"And  I  felt  it  was  necessary  to  you,  to  your  talent.  How 
could  I  feel  that  without  ever  hearing  your  music?  I  did." 


272        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

"Don't  I  seem  to  belong  to  Djenan-el-Maqui?" 

"I've  never  seen  you  there,"  she  answered,  with  a  deliberate 
evasiveness. 

Claude  looked  at  her  for  a  moment,.then  looked  away  over 
the  immense  view.  It  seemed  to  him  that  this  woman  was 
beginning  to  understand  him  too  well,  perhaps. 

"Of  course,"  she  added.  "There  is  a  sense  of  mystery  in 
an  Arab  house.  But  it's  such  a  different  kind.  And  I  think 
•we  each  have  our  own  particular  brand  of  mystery.  Now 
yours  was  a  very  special  brand,  quite  unlike  anyone  else's." 

"  I  certainly  got  to  love  my  little  house." 

"  Because  it  was  doing  things  for  you." 

Claude  looked  at  her  again,  and  thought  how  intelligent  her 
eyes  were.  As  he  looked  at  them  they  seemed  to  grow  more 
intelligent — as  if  in  answer  to  his  gaze. 

"Right  things,"  she  added,  with  an  emphasis  on  the  pen- 
ultimate word. 

"But — forgive  me — how  can  you  know?" 

"I  do  know.  I'm  an  ignoramus  with  marvellous  instincts 
in  certain  directions.  That's  why  a  lot  of  people — silly 
people,  you  think,  I  daresay — follow  my  lead." 

"Well,  but— " 

"Goon!" 

"I  think  I'd  better  not." 

"You  can  say  anything  to  me.  I'm  never  in  a  hurry  to 
take  offense." 

"I  was  going  to  say  that  you  seemed  rather  to  wish  once 
to  draw  me  out  of  my  shell  into  a  very  different  kind  of  life," 
said  Claude  slowly,  hesitatingly,  and  slightly  reddening. 

"I  acted  quite  against  my  artistic  instinct  when  I  did 
that." 

"Why?" 

Mrs.  Shiffney  looked  at  him  in  silence  for  a  moment.  She 
was  wishing  to  blush.  But  that  was  an  effort  beyond  her 
powers. 

Very  far  away  behind  them  a  clarion  sounded. 

"The  soldiers  must  be  going  back  to  barracks,  I  suppose," 
she  said. 

Claude  was  feeling  treacherous,  absurdly.     The  thought  of 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        273 

Charmian  had  come  to  him,  and  with  it  the  disagreeable, 
almost  hateful  sensation. 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  they  are,"  he  said  coldly. 

He  did  not  mean  to  speak  coldly;  but  directly  he  had  said 
the  words  he  knew  that  his  voice  had  become  frigid. 

"What  a  stupid  ass  I  am!"  was  his  comment  on  himself. 
But  how  to  be  different? 

Mrs.  Shiffney  was  looking  very  grave.  Her  drawn-down 
brows,  her  powerful  lips  suggested  to  him  at  this  moment 
suffering.  In  London  he  had  thought  of  her  as  a  typical 
pleasure-seeking  woman,  greedy  of  sensation,  reckless  in  the 
chase  after  it.  And  he  had  disliked,  almost  feared  her,  despite 
her  careless  charm.  Now  he  felt  differently  about  her.  He 
had  come  to  that  point  in  a  man's  acquaintance  with  a  woman 
when  he  says  to  himself,  "I  never  understood  her  properly." 
He  seemed  to  himself  a  brute.  Yet  what  had  he  done? 

She  did  not  speak  for  several  minutes.  He  wanted  to 
speak,  to  break  a  silence  which,  to  him,  was  painful;  but  he 
could  think  of  nothing  to  say.  He  felt  oddly  moved,  yet  he 
could  not  have  said  why,  perhaps  even  to  himself.  Keeping 
his  hands  clasped  round  his  knees,  he  looked  out  beyond  the 
gorge  over  the  open  country.  Far  down,  at  the  foot  of  the 
cascades,  he  saw  in  a  hollow  the  clustering  trees  about  the 
baths  of  Sidi  Imcin.  Along  the  reddish  bareness  of  the  hill 
showed  the  white  blossoms  of  some  fruit-trees,  almost  like  a 
white  dust  flung  up  against  the  tawny  breast  of  the  earth. 
The  water  made  a  hoarse  noise  in  the  hidden  depths  of  the 
gorge,  lifted  its  voice  into  a  roar  as  it  leaped  down  into  the 
valley,  murmured  like  the  voice  of  a  happy  dreamer  where  it 
slipped  by  among  the  trees.  And  Claude,  as  he  sat  in  silence, 
believed  that  he  heard  clearly  the  threefold  utterance,  subtly 
combined,  and,  like  some  strange  trinity,  striving  to  tell  him 
truths  of  life. 

His  eyes  travelled  beyond  the  gorge,  the  precipices,  the 
tree-tops,  beyond  the  hard  white  track  far  down  beneath  his 
feet,  to  the  open  country,  bare,  splendid,  almost  incredibly 
spacious,  fiercely  blooming  in  the  strong  colors — reds,  yellows, 
golds — with  long  rolling  slopes,  dimpling  shallow  depressions, 
snakelike  roads,  visible  surely  for  hundreds  of  kilometers,  far- 
is 


274        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

off  ranges  of  solemn  mountains  whose  crests  seemed  to  hint 
at  divinity.  And  as  he  looked  he  felt  that  he  wanted,  or 
perhaps  needed,  something  that  he  had  certainly  never  had, 
that  must  exist,  that  must  have  been,  be,  known  to  some  few 
men  and  women;  only  that  something  experienced  made  life 
truly  life. 

For  a  moment,  in  some  mysterious  process  of  the  mind, 
Claude  mingled  his  companion  with  the  dream  and  the  long- 
ing, transfigured,  standing  for  women  rather  than  a  woman. 

During  that  moment  Mrs.  Shiffney  watched  him,  and 
London  desires  connected  with  him  returned  to  her,  were 
very  strong  within  her.  She  had  come  to  him  as  a  spy  from 
an  enemy's  camp.  She  had  fulfilled  her  mission.  Any 
further  action  must  be  taken  by  Henriette — was,  perhaps, 
at  this  very  moment  being  taken  by  her.  But  if  this  man 
had  been  different  she  might  well  have  been  on  his  side. 
Even  now — 

Claude  felt  her  eyes  upon  him  and  looked  at  her.  And  now 
she  deliberately  allowed  him  to  see  her  thought,  her  desire. 
What  did  it  matter  if  he  was  married?  What  on  earth 
had  such  a  commonplace  matter  as  marriage  got  to  do  with  it? 

Her  look,  not  to  be  misunderstood,  brought  Claude  at  once 
back  to  that  firm  ground  on  which  he  walked  with  Charmian 
and  his  own  instinctive  loyalty;  an  austere  rubbish  in  Mrs. 
Shiffney's  consideration  of  it. 

He  unclasped  his  hands  from  his  knees.  At  that  moment 
he  saw  the  minotaur  thing,  with  its  teeth  and  claws,  heard 
the  shuddering  voice  of  it.  He  wanted  to  look  away  at  once 
from  Mrs.  Shiffney,  but  he  could  not.  All  that  he  could  do 
was  to  try  not  to  show  by  his  eyes  that  he  understood  her 
desire  and  was  recoiling  from  it. 

Of  course,  he  failed,  as  any  other  man  must  have  failed. 
She  followed  every  step  of  his  retreat,  and  sarcasm  flickered 
into  her  face,  transforming  it. 

"Don't  you  think  I  understand  you?"  she  said  lightly. 
"Don't  you  think  you  ought  to  have  lived  on  in  Mullion 
House?" 

As  she  spoke  she  got  up  and  gently  brushed  some  twigs 
from  her  tailor-made  skirt. 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        275 

Claude  sprang  up,  hoping  to  be  helped  by  movement. 

"Oh,  no,  I  had  had  quite  enough  of  it!"  he  replied,  forcing 
himself  to  seem  careless,  yet  conscious  that  little  of  what  he 
was  feeling  was  unknown  by  her  at  this  moment. 

"And  your  opera  could  never  have  been  brought  to  the 
birth  there." 

She  had  turned,  and  they  walked  slowly  back  among  the 
fir-trees  toward  the  bridge. 

"You  knew  that,  perhaps,  and  were  wise  in  your  genera- 
tion." 

Claude  said  nothing,  and  she  continued: 

"I  always  think  one  of  the  signs  of  greatness  in  an  artist 
is  his  knowledge  of  what  environment,  what  way  of  life,  is 
necessary  to  his  talent.  No  one  can  know  that  for  him. 
Every  really  great  artist  is  as  inflexible  as  the  Grand  Rocher." 

She  pointed  with  her  right  hand  toward  the  precipice. 

"That  is  why  women  always  love  and  hate  him." 

Her  eyes  and  her  voice  lightly  mocked  him.  She  turned 
her  head  and  looked  at  him,  smiling: 

"I  am  sure  Charmian  knows  that." 

Claude  reddened  to  the  roots  of  his  hair  and  felt  suddenly 
abased. 

"There  are  very  few  great  artists  in  the  world,"  he  said. 

"And,  so,  very  few  inflexible  men?" 

"I  have  never — " 

He  pulled  himself  up. 

"Yes?"  she  said  encouragingly. 

"I  was  only  going  to  say,"  he  said,  speaking  now  doggedly, 
"that  I  have  never  laid  claim  to  anything — anything  in  the 
way  of  talent.  It  isn't  quite  fair,  is  it,  to  assume  that  I  con- 
sider myself  a  man  of  talent  or  an  important  person  when 
I  don't?" 

"Do  you  really  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  don't  think 
yourself  a  man  of  talent?" 

"  I  am  entirely  unknown." 

"What  has  that  to  do  with  it?" 

"Nothing,  of  course,  but— but  perhaps  it  is  only  when  he 
has  something  to  offer,  and  has  offered  it,  that  a  man  knows 
what  is  his  value." 


276        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

"In  that  case  you  will  know  when  you  have  produced 
your  opera." 

Claude  looked  down. 

"  All  my  good  wishes  and  my  prayers  will  go  with  you  from 
now  till  its  production,"  she  continued,  always  lightly.  "I 
have  a  right  to  be  specially  interested  since  that  evening  with 
Said  Hitani.  And  then  I  have  been  privileged.  I  have  read 
the  libretto." 

As  she  spoke  Claude  was  conscious  of  uneasiness.  He 
thought  of  Charmian,  of  Mrs.  Shiffney,  of  the  libretto.  Had 
he  not  been  carried  away  by  events,  by  atmosphere,  perhaps, 
and  by  the  influence  of  music,  which  always  had  upon  him 
such  a  dangerously  powerful  effect?  He  remembered  the 
night  when  he  had  written  his  decisive  letter  to  Charmian. 
Music  had  guided  him  then.  Had  it  not  guided  him  again  in 
Constantine?  Was  it  angel  or  demon  in  his  life? 

"Help  me  down,  please.     It's  a  little  difficult  here.'"' 

He  took  Mrs.  Shiffney's  hand.  Its  clasp  now  told  him 
nothing. 

They  crossed  the  bridge  and  came  once  more  into  the 
violent  activities,  into  the  perpetual  uproar  of  the  city. 

By  the  evening  train  Mrs.  Shiffney  and  her  party  left 
for  Algiers.  Claude  went  down  to  the  station  to  see  them  off. 

On  the  platform  they  found  Armand  Gillier,  with  a  bunch 
of  flowers  in  his  hand. 

Just  as  the  train  was  about  to  start  he  presented  it  to 
Madame  Sennier. 

From  the  window  of  the  wagon-lit  Mrs.  Shiffney  looked  at 
the  two  men  standing  together  as  the  train  drew  away  from 
the  platform. 

Then  she  nodded  and  waved  her  hand. 

There  was  a  mocking  smile  on  her  face. 

When  the  station  was  hidden  she  leaned  back,  turning 
toward  Henriette. 

"Claude  Heath  is  a  fool!"  she  said.  "I  wonder  .-when  he 
will  begin  to  suspect  it?" 

"Men  have  to  take  their  time  over  things  like  that," 
remarked  Henriette.  "What  hideous  flowers  these  are!  I 
think  I  shall  throw  them  out  of  the  window." 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        277 

"No,  don't!" 

"Why  not?" 

"They  are  a  symbol  of  your  reconciliation  with  Armand 
Gillier." 

"He  isn't  altogether  a  fool,  I  fancy,"  remarked  Henriette, 
laying  Gillier's  bouquet  down  on  the  seat  beside  her.  "  But  we 
shall  see." 

"Oh,  Max!    Yes,  come  in  and  sit  with  us!" 

The  faces  of  the  two  women  changed  as  Max  Elliot  joined 
them. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

AFTER  their  return  from  Constantine  Mrs.  Shiffney  and 
her  party  only  stayed  two  nights  at  Mustapha.  Then 
they  descended  to  the  harbor  and  went  on  board  The 
Wanderer,  which  weighed  anchor  and  set  sail  for  Monte  Carlo. 
Before  leaving  they  paid  a  visit  to  Djenan-el-Maqui  to  say 
adieu  to  Charmian. 

The  day  was  unusually  hot  for  the  time  of  year,  and  both 
Mrs.  Shiffney  and  Madame  Sennier  were  shrouded  in  white 
veils  with  patterns.  These,  the  latest  things  from  Paris, 
were  almost  like  masks.  Little  of  the  faces  beneath  them 
could  be  seen.  But  no  doubt  they  preserved  complexions 
from  the  destructive  influence  of  the  sun. 

Jacques  Sennier  had  told  his  friends  and  his  wife  the  story 
of  his  days  of  desertion.  A  name  summed  it  up,  Djenan-el- 
Maqui.  With  the  utmost  vivacity,  however,  he  had  described 
all  he  had  eaten,  drunk,  smoked,  and  done  in  that  hospitable 
house  and  garden;  the  impression  he  had  made  upon  the 
occupants  and  had  received  from  them. 

"I  am  beloved  by  all!"  he  had  cried,  with  enthusiasm. 
"They  would  die  for  me.  As  for  the  good  Pierre,  each  night 
he  led  me  home  as  if  I  were  his  own  child!" 

"We  must  certainly  go  and  thank  them,"  said  Mrs.  Shiffney, 
laughing. 

The  visit  was  not  without  intensities. 

"We've  come  to  say  'Good-bye,'"  said  Mrs.  Shiffney, 
when  they  came  into  the  "harem,"  as  she  persisted  in  calling 
the  drawing-room.  "  We  are  just  back  from  our  little  run, 
and  now  we  must  be  off  to  Monte  Carlo.  By  the  way,  we  came 
across  your  husband  in  Constantine." 

"I  know.     He  wrote  to  me  all  about  it,"  said  Charmian. 

Claude  had  really  written  a  very  short  note,  ending  with 
the  maddening  phrase,  "all  news  when  we  meet."  She  was 

278 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        279 

burning  with  curiosity,  was  tingling  almost  with  suspicion. 
As  she  looked  at  those  veils,  and  saw  the  shining  of  the  feminine 
eyes  behind  them,  it  seemed  to  her  that  the  two  women  lay 
in  ambush  while  she  stood  defenseless  in  the  open. 

"Jacques  has  been  telling  me  about  your  kindness  to 
him,"  said  Madame  Sennier,  "and  your  long  talks  about 
opera,  America,  the  audiences  over  there,  the  managers,  the 
money-making.  I'm  afraid  he  must  have  bored  you  with  our 
affairs." 

"Oh,  no!"  said  Charmian  quickly,  and  faintly  reddening. 
"We  have  had  a  delightful  time." 

"Adorable!"  said  Sennier.  "And  those  syrups  of  fruit, 
the  strawberry,  the  greengage!  And  the  omelettes  of  Jeanne, 
'Jeanne  la  Grande,'  " — he  flung  forth  his  arms  to  indicate  the 
breadth  of  the  cook.  "And  the  evenings  of  moonlight,  when 
we  wandered  between  the  passion-flowers!" 
He  blew  a  kiss. 

"Shall  I  forget  them?    Never!" 
Madame  Sennier  was  evidently  quite  undisturbed. 
"You've  given  him  a  good  time,"  she  observed.     "Indeed 
I'm  afraid  you've  spoilt  him.    But  are  there  really  passion- 
flowers in  the  garden?" 

"I  don't  believe  it!"  said  Max  Elliot,  laughing. 
The  composer  seized  his  arm. 

"Come  with  me,  Max,  and  I  will  show  you.  England, 
that  is  the  land  of  the  sceptics.  But  you  shall  learn  to  have 
faith.  And  you,  my  Susan,  come!" 

He  seized  these  two,  who  happened  to  be  nearest  to  him, 
and,  laughing  like  a  child,  but  with  imperative  hands,  com- 
pelled them  to  go  out  with  him  to  the  courtyard.  Their  steps 
died  away  on  the  pavement.  The  three  women  were  left 
alone. 

"Shall  we  sit  in  the  court?"  said  Charmian.     "I  think  it's 
cooler  there.    There's  a  little  breeze  from  the  sea." 
"Let  us  go,  then,"  said  Madame  Sennier. 
When  they  were  sitting  not  far  from  the  fountain,  which 
made  a  pleasant  murmur  as  it  fell  into  the  pool  where  the 
three  goldfish  moved  slowly  as  if  in  a  vague  and  perpetual 
search,  Charmian  turned  the  conversation  to  Constantine. 


280        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

"It's  perfectly  marvellous!"  said  Mrs.  Shiffney.  "Barbaric 
and  extraordinary." 

And  she  talked  of  the  gorge  and  of  the  Chemin  des  Touristes. 
Madame  Sennier  spoke  of  the  terrific  wall  of  rock  from  which, 
in  the  days  before  the  French  occupation,  faithless  wives  were 
sometimes  hurled  to  death  by  their  Arab  husbands. 

"C'est  affreuxl"  she  exclaimed,  lapsing  into  French.  She 
put  up  her  hand  to  her  veil,  and  pulled  it  tightly  under  her 
prominent  chin  with  twisting  fingers. 

"Les  Arabes  sont  des  monstres." 

As  she  spoke,  as  with  her  cold  yellow  eyes  she  glanced 
through  the  interstices  of  her  veil  at  Charmian,  she  thought 
of  Claude's  libretto. 

"Oh,  but  they  are  very  attractive  1"  said  Charmian  quickly. 

She,  too,  was  thinking  of  the  libretto  with  its  Arab  char- 
acters, its  African  setting.  Not  knowing,  not  suspecting 
that  Madame  Sennier  had  read  it,  she  supposed  that  Madame 
Sennier  was  expressing  a  real  and  instinctive  disgust. 

The  Frenchwoman  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"Ce  sont  tons  des  monstres  malpropresl" 

"Henriette  can't  bear  them,"  said  Mrs.  Shiffney,  pushing 
a  dried  leaf  of  eucalyptus  idly  over  the  pavement  with  the 
point  of  her  black-and-white  parasol.  "And  do  you  know 
I  really  believe  that  there  is  a  strong  antipathy  between  West 
and  East.  I  don't  think  Europeans  and  Americans  really 
feel  attracted  by  Arabs,  except  perhaps  just  at  first  because 
they  are  picturesque." 

"Americans!"  cried  Madame  Sennier.  "Why,  anything 
to  do  with  what  they  call  color  drives  them  quite  mad!" 

"Negroes  are  not  Arabs,"  said  Charmian,  almost  warmly. 

"It  is  all  the  same.    Us  sont  tons  des  monstres  affreux." 

"Tst!    Tst!    Tst!" 

The  voice  of  Jacques  came  up  from  the  garden. 

"What  is  it?" 

"Tst!    Tst!" 

They  were  silent,  and  heard  in  the  distance  faintly  a  sound  of 
drumming  and  of  native  music. 

"I  must  go!    I  must  hear,  see!" 

The  composer  cried  out. 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        281 

"Come  with  me,  my  Susan,  and  you,  Max,  old  person!" 

There  was  a  patter  of  running  feet,  a  sound  of  full-throated 
laughter  from  Elliot,  and  presently  silence  but  for  the  now 
very  distant  music. 

"He  is  a  baby,"  observed  Madame  Sennier. 

She  yawned,  slightly  blowing  out  her  veil. 

" How  hot  it  is!" 

Pierre  came  out  carrying  a  tray  on  which  were  some  of  the 
famous  fruit  syrups,  iced  lemonade,  cakes,  and  bonbons. 

"These  are  the  things  your  husband  loves,"  said  Charmian, 
pointing  to  the  syrups.  "I  wonder — "  She  paused.  "Did 
you  make  as  great  friends  with  my  husband  as  I  have  made 
with  yours?"  she  asked  lightly. 

Madame  Sennier  spread  out  her  hands,  which  were  encased 
in  thick  white  kid  gloves  sewn  with  black.  Her  amazingly 
thin  figure,  which  made  ignorant  people  wonder  whether  she 
possessed  the  physical  mechanism  declared  by  anatomists  to 
be  necessary  to  human  life,  somehow  proclaimed  a  negative. 

"My  husband  opens  his  door,  the  window  too.  Yours 
keeps  his  door  shut  and  the  blinds  over  the  window.  Jacques 
gives  all,  like  a  child.  Your  husband  seems  to  give  some- 
times; but  he  really  gives  nothing." 

"Of  course,  the  English  temperament  is  very  different  from 
the  French,"  said  Charmian,  in  a  constrained  voice. 

"Very!"  said  Mrs.  Shiffney. 

Was  she  smiling  behind  the  veil? 

"You  ought  to  go  to  America,"  said  Madame  Sennier. 
"Nobody  knows  what  real  life  is  who  has  not  seen  New  York 
in  the  season.  Paris,  London,  they  are  sleepy  villages  in 
comparison  with  New  York." 

"I  should  like  to  see  it,"  replied  Charmian.  "But  we 
have  nothing  to  take  us  there,  no  reason  to  go." 

She  laughed  and  added: 

"And  Claude  and  I  are  not  millionaires." 

Madame  Sennier  talked  for  two  or  three  minutes  of  the 
great  expense  of  living  in  a  smart  New  York  hotel,  and  then 
said: 

"But  some  day  you  will  surely  go." 

"There  doesn't  seem  any  prospect  of  it,"  said  Charmian. 


282        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

"D'you  remember  meeting  a  funny  little  man  called 
Crayford  in  my  house  one  night,  an  impresario?"  said  Mrs. 
Shiffney,  moving  her  shoulders,  and  pulling  at  one  of  her 
long  gloves,  as  if  she  were  bored  and  must  find  some  occupation. 

"Yes,  I  believe  I  do — a  man  with  a  tiny  beard." 

"Like  a  little  inquiring  goat's!  D'you  know  that  he's 
searching  the  world  to  find  some  composer  to  run  against 
Jacques?  Isn't  it  so,  Henriette?" 

"So  they  say  in  New  York,"  said  Madame  Sennier.  "I 
wish  he  could  find  one;  then  perhaps  he  would  leave  off 
bothering  us  with  absurd  proposals.  And  I'm  sure  there  is 
plenty  of  room  for  some  more  shining  lights.  I  told  Crayford 
if  he  worried  Jacques  any  more  I  would  unearth  someone  for 
him.  He  doesn't  know  where  to  look." 

"But  surely — "  began  Charmian. 

"Why  do  you  think  that?"  asked  Mrs.  Shiffney,  in  an 
uninterested  voice. 

Her  brilliant  eyes  looked  extraordinary,  like  some  strange 
exotic  bird's  eyes,  through  her  veil. 

"Because  he  began  his  search  with  England,"  said  Madame 
Sennier. 

"Well,  really — Henriette!"  observed  Mrs.  Shiffney,  with 
a  faint  laugh. 

"Ought  I  to  apologize?"  said  Madame  Sennier,  turning  to 
Charmian.  "When  art  is  in  question  I  believe  in  speaking 
the  plain  truth.  Oh,  I  know  your  husband  is  by  way  of 
writing  an  opera!  But,  of  course,  one  sees  that — well,  you 
are  here  in  this  delicious  little  house,  having  what  the  Ameri- 
cans call  a  lovely  tune,  enjoying  North  Africa,  listening  to 
the  fountain,  walking,  as  my  old  baby  says,  among  passion- 
flowers, and  playing  about  with  that  joke  from  the  Quartier 
Latin,  Armand  Gillier.  Mais,  ma  chere,  ce  n'est  pas  serieux! 
One  has  only  to  look  at  your  interesting  husband,  to  see  him 
in  the  African  milieu,  to  see  that.  And,  of  course,  one  realizes 
at  once  that  you  see  through  it  all!  A  pretty  game!  If  one 
is  well  off  one  can  afford  it.  Jacques  and  I  starved;  but  it 
was  quite  right  that  we  should.  The  English  talent  is  not 
for  opera.  The  Te  Deum,  the  cathedral  service,  the  oratorio 
in  one  form  or  another,  in  fact  the  thing  with  a  sacred  basis, 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        283 

that  is  where  the  English  strength  lies.  It  is  in  the  blood. 
But  opera!"  Her  shoulders  went  up.  "Ah,  here  they 
come!  Jacques,  my  cabbage,  you  are  to  be  petted  for  the  last 
time!  Here  are  your  syrups." 

Jacques  Sennier  came,  almost  running. 

"Did  they  ever  nearly  starve?"  Charmian  asked  Mrs. 
Shiffney,  when  for  a  moment  the  attention  of  all  the  others 
was  distracted  from  her  by  some  wild  joke  of  the  com- 
poser's. 

"Henriette  thinks  so,  I  believe.  Perhaps  that  is  why 
Jacques  is  eating  all  your  biscuits  now." 

When  the  moment  of  parting  came  Jaques  Sennier  was 
almost  in  tears.  He  insisted  on  going  into  the  kitchen  to  say 
farewell  to  "la  grande  Jeanne."  He  took  Pierre  in  his  arms, 
solemnly  blessed  Caroline,  and  warmly  pressed  his  lips  to 
Charmian's  hands  as  he  held  them,  squeezed  one  on  the  top 
of  the  other,  in  both  his  own. 

"I  shall  dedicate  my  new  opera  to  you  and  to  your  syrups!" 
he  exclaimed.  "To  the  greengage,  ah,  and  the  passion- 
flowers! Max,  you  old  person,  have  you  seen  them,  or  have 
you  not?  The  wonderful  Washington  was  not  more  truthful 
than  I." 

His  eyes  twinkled. 

"Were  it  not  that  I  am  a  physical  coward,  I  would  not  go 
even  now.  But  to  die  because  a  man  who  cannot  write  has 
practised  on  soda-water  bottles!  I  fly  before  Armand  Gillier. 
But,  madame,  I  fear  your  respectable  husband  is  even  more 
cowardly  than  I!" 

"Why?"  said  Charmian,  at  length  releasing  her  hands 
from  his  Simian  grasp. 

"He  accepted  a  libretto!" 

When  they  were  gone  Charmian  was  suddenly  overcome 
by  a  sense  of  profound  depression  such  as  she  had  never  felt 
before.  With  them  seemed  to  go  a  world;  and  it  was  a  world 
that  some  part  of  her  loved  and  longed  for.  Sennier  stood 
for  fame,  for  success;  his  wife  for  the  glory  of  the  woman  who 
aids  and  is  crowned;  Mrs.  Shiffney  and  Max  Elliot  for  the  joy 
and  the  power  that  belong  to  great  patrons  of  the  arts.  An 
immense  vitality  went  away  with  them  all.  So  long  as  they 


284        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

were  with  her  the  little  Arab  house,  the  little  African  garden, 
had  stood  in  the  center  of  things,  in  the  heart  of  vital  things. 
The  two  women  had  troubled  Charmian.  Madame  Sennier 
had  almost  frightened  her.  Yet  something  in  both  of  them 
fascinated,  must  always  fascinate  such  a  mind  and  tempera- 
ment as  hers.  They  meant  so  much  to  the  men  who  were 
known.  And  they  had  made  themselves  known.  Both  were 
women  who  stood  apart  from  the  great  crowd.  When  their 
names  were  mentioned  everyone — who  counted — knew  who 
they  were. 

As  to  Jacques  Sennier,  he  left  a  crevasse  in  the  life  at 
Djenan-el-Maqui.  It  had  been  a  dangerous  experience  for 
Charmian,  the  associating  in  intimacy  with  the  little  famous 
man.  Her  secret  ambitions  were  irritated  almost  to  the 
point  of  nervous  exasperation.  But  she  only  knew  it  now 
that  he  was  gone. 

Madame  Sennier  had  frightened  her. 

"Mais,  ma  chere,  ce  n'est  pas  strieux!" 

The  words  had  been  said  with  an  air  of  hard  and  careless 
authority,  as  if  the  speaker  knew  she  was  expressing  the 
obvious  truth,  and  a  truth  known  to  both  her  hearers;  and 
then  the  words  which  had  followed:  "One  has  only  to  look 
at  your  interesting  husband,  to  see  him  in  the  African  milieu, 
to  see  that!" 

What  had  happened  at  Constantine?  How  had  Claude 
been? 

Charmian  wanted  so  much  to  see  him,  to  hear  his  account 
of  the  whole  matter,  that  she  telegraphed: 

"Come  back  as  soon  as  you  can  they  have  gone  very  dull 
here. — CHARMIAN." 

She  knew  that  in  sending  this  telegram  she  was  coming  out 
of  her  role;  but  her  nerves  drove  her  into  the  weakness. 

Within  a  week  Claude  and  Gillier  returned. 

Charmian  noticed  at  once  that  their  expedition  had  not 
drawn  the  two  men  together,  that  their  manner  to  each  other 
was  cold  and  constrained.  On  the  day  of  their  return  she 
persuaded  Gillier  to  dine  at  the  villa.  He  seemed  reluctant 
to  accept,  but  she  overcame  his  hesitation. 

"  I  want  to  hear  all  about  it,"  she  said.     "  You  must  remem- 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        285 

ber  what  a  keen  interest  I  have  in  everything  that  has  to  do 
with  the  opera." 

Gillier  looked  at  her  oddly,  with  a  sort  of  furtive  inquiry, 
she  thought.  Then  he  said  formally: 

"  I  am  delighted  to  stay,  madame." 

During  dinner  he  became  more  expansive,  but  Claude 
seemed  to  Charmian  to  become  more  constrained.  Beneath 
his  constraint  excitement  lay  in  hiding.  He  looked  tired; 
but  his  imaginative  eyes  shone  as  if  they  could  not  help  speak- 
ing, although  his  lips  were  often  dumb.  Only  when  he  was 
talking  to  Susan  Fleet  did  he  seem  to  be  comparatively  at  ease. 

The  good  Algerian  wine  went  round,  and  Gillier's  tongue 
was  gradually  unloosed.  Some  of  the  crust  of  formality 
flaked  off  from  him,  and  his  voice  became  a  little  louder.  His 
manner,  too,  was  more  animated.  Nevertheless,  Charmian 
noticed  that  from  time  to  time  he  regarded  her  with  the 
oddly  furtive  look  at  which  she  had  wondered  before  dinner. 

Presently  Gillier  found  himself  alone  with  Charmian. 
Susan  Fleet  and  Claude  were  pacing  up  and  down  in  the 
garden  among  the  geraniums.  Charmian  and  Gillier  sat  at 
the  edge  of  the  court.  Gillier  sipped  his  Turkish  coffee, 
poured  out  a  glass  of  old  brandy,  clipped  a  big  Havana  cigar, 
which  he  took  from  an  open  box  on  a  little  low  table  beside 
him.  His  large  eyes  rested  on  Charmian,  and  she  thought 
how  disagreeably  expressive  they  were.  She  did  not  like 
this  man,  though  she  admired  his  remarkable  talent.  But 
she  had  had  a  purpose  in  persuading  him  to  stay  that  evening, 
and  she  was  resolved  to  carry  it  out. 

"Has  it  gone  off  well?"  she  asked,  with  a  careful  light- 
ness, a  careful  carelessness  which  she  hoped  was  deceiving. 
"Were  you  able  to  put  my  husband  in  the  way  of  seeing  and 
hearing  everything  that  could  help  him  with  his  music?" 

"Oh,  yes,  madame!     He  saw,  heard  everything." 

Gillier  blew  forth  a  cloud  of  smoke,  turned  a  little  in  his 
chair  and  looked  at  his  cigar.  He  seemed  to  be  considering 
something. 

"Then   the  expedition  was  a  success?"  said  Charmian. 

Gillier  glanced  at  her  and  took  another  sip  of  brandy. 

"Who  knows,  madame?" 


286        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

"Who  knows?    Why,  how  do  you  mean?" 

"Madame,  since  I  have  been  away  with  your  husband  I 
confess  I  begin  to  have  certain  doubts." 

"Doubts!"  said  Charmian,  in  a  changed  and  almost  chal- 
lenging voice.  "I  don't  quite  understand." 

"That  your  husband  is  a  clever  man,  I  realize.  He  has 
evidently  much  knowledge  of  the  technique  of  music,  much 
imagination.  He  is  an  original,  though  he  seldom  shows  it, 
and  wishes  to  conceal  it." 

"Then—" 

"A  moment,  madame!  You  will  say,  'That  is  good  for 
the  opera ! '  : 

"Naturally!" 

"  That  depends.  I  do  not  know  whether  his  sort  of  original- 
ity is  what  the  public  will  appreciate.  But  I  do  know  very 
well  that  your  husband  and  I  will  never  get  on  together." 

"Why  not?" 

"He  is  not  my  sort.  I  don't  understand  him.  And  I 
confess  that  I  feel  anxious." 

"Anxious?     What  about,  monsieur?" 

"Madame,  I  have  written  a  great  libretto.  I  want  a 
great  opera  made  of  it.  It  is  my  nature  to  speak  frankly; 
perhaps  you  may  call  it  brutally,  but  I  am  not  homme  du 
monde.  I  am  not  a  little  man  of  the  salons.  I  am  not  ac- 
customed to  live  in  kid  gloves.  I  have  sweated.  I  have 
seen  life.  I  have  been,  and  I  still  am,  poor — poor,  madame! 
But,  madame,  I  do  not  intend  to  remain  sunk  to  my  neck  in 
poverty  for  ever.  No!" 

"Of  course  not — with  your  talent!" 

"Ah,  that  is  just  it!" 

His  eyes  shone  with  excitement  as  he  went  on,  leaning 
toward  her,  and  speaking  almost  with  violence. 

"That  is  just  it!  My  talent  for  the  stage  is  great,  I  have 
always  known  that.  Even  when  my  work  was  refused  once, 
a  second,  a  third  time,  I  knew  it.  'The  day  will  come,'  I 
thought,  'when  those  who  now  refuse  my  work  will  come 
crawling  to  me  to  get  me  to  write  for  them.  Now  I  am  told 
to  go!  Then  they  will  seek  me.'  Yes" — he  paused,  finished 
his  glass  of  brandy,  and  continued,  more  quietly,  as  if  he 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        287 

were  making  a  great  effort  after  self-control — "but  is  your 
husband's  talent  for  the  stage  as  great  as  mine?  I  doubt  it." 

"Why  do  you  doubt  it?"  exclaimed  Charmian  warmly. 
"What  reason  have  you  to  doubt  it?  You  have  not  heard 
my  husband's  music  to  your  libretto  yet,  not  a  note  of  it." 

"No.    And  that  enables  me — " 

"Enables  you  to  do  what?  Why  didn't  you  finish  your 
sentence,  Monsieur  Gillier?" 

"Madame,  if  you  are  going  to  be  angry  with  me — " 

"Angry!  My  dear  Monsieur  Gillier,  I  am  not  angry! 
What  can  you  be  thinking  of?" 

"I  feared  by  your  words,  your  manner — " 

"I  assure  you — besides,  what  is  there  to  be  angry  about? 
But  do  finish  what  you  were  saying." 

"I  was  about  to  say  that  the  fact  that  I  have  not  yet 
heard  any  of  your  husband's  music  to  my  libretto  enables  me, 
without  any  offense — personal  offense — pronouncing  any 
sort  of  judgment — to  approach  you — "  He  paused.  The 
expression  in  her  eyes  made  him  pause.  He  fidgeted  rather 
uneasily  in  his  chair,  and  looked  away  from  her  to  the  fountain. 

"Yes?"  said  Charmian. 

"Madame?" 

"Please  tell  me  what  it  is  you  want  of  me,  or  my  husband, 
or  of  both  of  us." 

"I  do  not — I  have  not  said  I  want  anything.  But  it  is 
true  I  want  success.  I  want  it  for  this  work  of  mine.  Since 
I  have  been  in  Constantine  with  Monsieur  Heath  I  have — 
very  reluctantly,  madame,  believe  me! — come  to  the  con- 
clusion that  he  and  I  are  not  suited  to  be  associated  together 
in  the  production  of  a  work  of  art.  We  are  too  different  the 
one  from  the  other.  I  am  an  Algerian  ex-soldier,  a  man  who 
has  gone  into  the  depths  of  life.  He  is  an  English  Puritan 
who  never  has  lived,  and  never  will  live.  I  have  done  all  I 
could  to  make  him  understand  something  of  the  life  not 
merely  in,  but  that  underlies — underlies — my  libretto.  My 
efforts — well,  what  can  I  say?" — he  flung  out  his  hands  and 
shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"It  is  only  the  difference  between  the  French  and  English 
temperaments." 


288        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

"  No,  madame.  It  is  the  difference  between  the  man  who 
is  and  the  man  who  is  not  afraid  to  live." 

"I  don't  agree  with  you,"  said  Charmian  coldly.  "But 
really  it  is  not  a  matter  which  I  can  discuss  with  you." 

"I  have  no  wish  to  discuss  it.  All  I  wish  to  say  is  this" — 
he  looked  down,  hesitated,  then  with  a  sort  of  dogged  obstin- 
acy continued,  "that  I  am  willing  to  buy  back  my  libretto 
from  you  at  the  price  for  which  I  sold  it.  I  have  come  to  the 
conclusion  that  it  is  not  likely  to  suit  your  husband's  talent. 
I  am  very  poor  indeed,  alas !  but  I  prefer  to  lose  a  hundred 
pounds  rather  than  to — " 

"Have  you  spoken  to  my  husband  of  this?"  Charmian 
interrupted  him. 

She  was  almost  trembling  with  anger  and  excitement,  but 
she  managed  to  speak  quietly. 

"No,  madame." 

"  You  have  asked  me  a  question — " 

"I  have  asked  no  question,  madame!" 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  you  are  not  asking  me  if  we  will 
resell  the  libretto?" 

Gillier  was  silent. 

"My  answer  is  that  the  libretto  is  our  property  and  that 
we  intend  to  keep  it.  If  you  offered  us  five  times  what  we 
gave  you  for  it  the  answer  would  be  the  same." 

She  paused.  Gillier  said  nothing.  She  looked  at  him  and 
suddenly  anger,  a  sense  of  outrage,  got  the  better  of  her,  and 
she  added  with  intense  bitterness: 

"We  are  living  here  in  North  Africa,  we  have  given  up  our 
home,  our  friends,  our  occupations,  everything — our  life  in 
England" — her  voice  trembled.  "Everything,  I  say,  in 
order  to  do  justice  to  your  work,  and  you  come,  you  dare  to 
come  to  us,  and  ask — ask — " 

Gillier  got  up. 

"  Madame,  I  see  it  is  useless.  You  have  bought  my  work, 
if  you  choose  to  keep  it — " 

"  We  do  choose  to  keep  it." 

"Then  I  can  do  nothing." 

He  pulled  out  his  watch. 

"  It  is  late.    I  must  wish  you  good-night,  madame.     Kindly 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        289 

say  good-night  for  me  to  that  lady,  your  friend,  and  to 
Monsieur  Heath." 

He  bowed.  Charmian  did  not  hold  out  her  hand.  She 
meant  to,  but  it  seemed  to  her  that  her  hand  refused  to  move, 
as  if  it  had  a  will  of  its  own  to  resist  hers. 

''Good-night,"   she  said. 

She  watched  his  rather  short  and  broad  figure  pass  across 
the  open  space  of  the  court  and  disappear. 

After  he  had  gone  she  moved  across  the  court  to  the  foun- 
tain and  sat  down  at  its  edge.  She  was  trembling  now, 
and  her  excitement  was  growing  in  solitude.  But  she  still 
had  the  desire  to  govern  it,  the  hope  that  she  would  be  able 
to  do  so.  She  felt  that  she  had  been  grossly  insulted  by 
Gillier.  But  she  was  not  only  angry  with  him.  She  stared 
at  the  rising  and  falling  water,  clasping  her  hands  tightly 
together.  "I  will  be  calm!"  she  was  saying  to  herself.  "I 
will  be  calm,  mistress  of  myself." 

But  suddenly  she  got  up,  went  swiftly  across  the  court  to 
the  garden  entrance,  and  called  out: 

"Susan!    Claude!    Where  are  you?" 

Her  voice  sounded  to  her  sharp  and  piercing  in  the  night. 

"What  is  it,  Charmian?"  answered  Claude's  voice  from  the 
distance. 

"  I'm  going  to  bed.    It's  late.    Monsieur  Gillier  has  gone." 

"Coming!"  answered  Claude's  voice. 

Charmian  retreated  to  the  house. 

As  she  came  into  the  drawing-room  she  looked  at  her  watch. 
It  was  barely  ten  o'clock.  In  a  moment  Susan  Fleet  entered, 
followed  by  Claude.  Susan's  calm  eyes  glanced  at  Charmian's 
face.  Then  she  said,  in  her  quiet,  agreeable  voice: 

"I'm  going  to  my  room.  I  have  two  or  three  letters  to 
write,  and  I  shall  read  a  little  before  going  to  bed.  It  isn't 
really  very  late,  but  I  daresay  you  are  tried." 

She  took  Charmian's  hand  and  held  it  for  an  instant.  And 
during  that  instant  Charmian  felt  much  calmer. 

"Good-night,  Susan  dear.  Monsieur  Gillier  asked  me  to 
say  good-night  to  you  for  him." 

Susan  did  not  kiss  her,  said  good-night  to  Claude,  and  went 
quietly  away. 

19 


290 

"  What  is  it?"  Claude  said,  directly  she  had  gone.  "  What's 
the  matter,  Charmian?  Why  did  Gillier  go  away  so 
early?" 

"Let  us  go  upstairs,"  she  answeredv 

Remembering  the  sound  of  her  voice  in  the  court,  she 
strove  to  keep  it  natural,  even  gentle,  now.  Susan's  recent 
touch  had  helped  her  a  little. 

"All  right,"  he  answered. 

"  Come  into  my  sitting-room  for  a  minute,"  she  said,  when 
they  were  in  the  narrow  gallery  which  ran  round  the  drawing- 
room  on  the  upper  story  of  the  house. 

Next  to  her  bedroom  Charmian  had  a  tiny  room,  a  sort  of 
nook,  where  she  wrote  her  letters  and  did  accounts. 

"Well,  what  is  it?"  Claude  asked  again,  when  he  had 
followed  her  into  this  room,  which  was  lit  only  by  a  hanging 
antique  lamp. 

"How  could  you  show  the  libretto  to  Madame  Sennier?" 
said  Charmian.  "How  could  you  be  so  mad  as  to  do  such 
a  thing?" 

As  she  finished  speaking  she  sat  down  on  the  little  divan 
in  the  embrasure  of  the  small  grated  window. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  exclaimed.  "I  have  never 
shown  the  libretto  to  Madame  Sennier.  What  could  put 
such  an  idea  into  your  head?" 

"But  you  must  have  shown  it!" 

"  Charmian,  I  have  this  moment  told  you  that  I  haven't." 

"She  has  read  it." 

"Nonsense." 

"I  am  positive  she  has  read  it." 

"Then  Gillier  must  have  shown  her  a  copy  of  it." 

Charmian  was  silent  for  a  minute.    Then  she  said  : 

"  You  did  not  show  it  to  anyone  while  you  were  at  Constan- 
tine?" 

"I  didn't  say  that." 

"Ah!    You— you  let  Mrs.  Shiffney  see  it!" 

Her  voice  rose  as  she  said  the  last  words. 

"I  suppose  I  have  a  right  to  allow  anyone  I  choose  to  read 
a  libretto  I  have  bought  and  paid  for,"  he  said  coldly,  almost 
sternly. 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        291 

"You  did  give  it  to  Mrs.  Shiffney  then!  You  did!  You 
did!" 

"Certainly  I  did!" 

"And  then — then  you  come  to  me  and  say  that  Madame 
Sennier  hasn't  read  it!" 

There  was  a  sound  of  acute,  almost  of  fierce  exasperation 
in  her  voice. 

"She  had  not  read  my  copy." 

"I  say  she  has!"  ~*. 

"  Mrs.  Shiffney  herself  specially  advised  me  not  to  show  it 
to  her." 

"To  her — to  Madame  Sennier?" 

"Yes." 

"Mrs.  Shiffney  advised  you!  Oh — you — oh,  that  men 
should  claim  to  have  keener  intellects  than  we  women!  Ah! 
Ah!" 

She  began  to  laugh  hysterically,  then  suddenly  put  a 
handkerchief  before  her  mouth,  turned  her  head  away  from 
him  and  pressed  her  face,  with  the  handkerchief  still  held  to 
it,  against  the  cushions  of  the  divan.  Her  body  shook. 

" Charmian!"  he  said.    " Charmian!" 

She  looked  up.  All  one  side  of  her  face  was  red.  She 
dropped  her  handkerchief  on  the  floor. 

"Do  you  understand  now?"  she  said.  "But,  of  course, 
you  don't.  Well,  then!" 

She  put  both  her  hands  palm  downward  on  the  divan, 
and,  speaking  slowly  with  an  emphasis  that  was  cutting,  and 
stretching  her  body  till  her  shoulders  were  slightly  raised,  she 
said: 

"Just  now,  while  Susan  and  you  were  in  the  garden, 
Armand  Gillier  asked  me  if  we  would  give  up  his  libretto." 

"Give  up  the  libretto?" 

"Sell  it  back  to  him  for  one  hundred  pounds.  He  also 
said  he  was  very  poor.  Do  you  put  the  two  things  together?'* 

"You  think  he  fancies — " 

"No.  I  am  sure  he  knows  he  could  resell  it  at  an  advance 
to  Jacques  Sennier.  Those  two — Mrs.  Shiffney  and  Madame 
Sennier — went  to  Constantine  with  the  intention  of  finding 
out  what  you  were  doing." 


292        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

"Absurd!" 

"Is  it?  Just  tell  me!  Wasn't  it  Mrs.  Shiffney  who 
began  to  talk  of  the  libretto?" 

"Well—" 

"Of  course  it  was!  And  didn't  she  pretend  to  be  deeply 
interested  in  what  you  were  doing?" 

Claude  flushed. 

"And  didn't  she  talk  of  how  other  artists  had  trusted  her 
with  secrets  nobody  else  knew?  And  didn't  she — didn't 
she—" 

But  something  in  Claude's  eyes  stopped  her  as  she  was  going 
to  say — "make  love  to  you." 

"And  so  you  gave  your  libretto  up  to  our  enemy  to  read, 
and  now  they  are  trying  to  bribe  Gillier  to  ruin  us.  Why  are 
we  here?  Why  did  I  give  up  everything,  my  whole  life,  my 
mother,  my  friends,  our  little  house,  everything  I  cared  for, 
everything  that  has  made  my  life  till  now?  Simply  for  you 
and  for  your  success.  And  then  for  the  first  woman  who 
comes  along — " 

Her  cheeks  were  flaming.  As  she  thought  more  about 
what  had  happened  a  storm  of  jealousy  swept  through  her 
heart. 

"That's  not  true  or  fair — what  you  imply!"  said  Claude. 
"  I  never — Mrs.  Shiffney  is  absolutely  nothing  to  me — 
nothing!" 

"Do  you  understand  now  that  she  got  the  libretto  in  order 
to  show  it  to  Madame  Sennier?" 

"Did  Gillier  ever  say  so?" 

"Of  course  not!  Even  if  he  knows  it,  do  you  think  it  was 
necessary  he  should — to  a  woman!" 

The  contempt  in  her  voice  seemed  to  cut  into  him.  He 
began,  against  his  will,  to  feel  that  Charmian  must  be  right  in 
her  supposition,  to  believe  that  he  had  been  tricked. 

"We  have  no  proof,"  he  said. 

Charmian  raised  her  eyebrows  and  sank  back  on  the  divan. 
She  was  struggling  against  an  outburst  of  tears.  Her  lips 
moved. 

"Proof!    Proof!"  she  said  at  last. 

Her  lips  moved  violently.     She  got  up,  and  tried  hurriedly 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        293 

to  go  by  Claude  into  the  gallery;  but  he  put  out  a  hand  and 
caught  her  by  the  arm. 

"Charmian!" 

She  tried  to  get  away.     But  he  held  her. 

"I  do  understand.  You  have  given  up  a  lot  for  me.' 
Perhaps  I  was  a  great  fool  at  Constantine.  I  begin  to  believe 
I  was.  But,  after  all,  there's  no  great  harm  done.  The 
libretto  is  mine — ours,  ours.  And  we're  not  going  to  give 
it  up.  I'll  try — I'll  try  to  put  my  heart  into  the  music, 
to  bring  off  a  real  success,  to  give  you  all  you  want,  pay  you 
back  for  all  you've  given  up  for  me  and  the  work.  Of  course, 
I  may  fail — " 

She  stopped  his  mouth  with  her  lips,  wrenched  herself  from 
his  grasp,  and  hurried  away. 

A  moment  later  he  heard  the  heavy  low  door  of  her  bedroom 
creak  as  she  pushed  it  to,  then  the  grinding  of  the  key  in  the 
lock. 

He  sat  down  on  the  divan  she  had  just  left.  For  a  moment 
he  sat  still,  facing  the  gallery,  and  the  carved  wooden  balus- 
trade which  protected  its  further  side.  Then  he  turned  and 
looked  out  through  the  low,  grated  window,  from  which  no 
doubt  in  days  long  since  gone  by  veiled  Arab  women  had 
looked  as  they  sat  idly  on  the  divan. 

He  saw  a  section  of  almost  black-purple  sky.  He  saw 
some  stars.  And,  leaning  his  cheek  on  his  hand,  he  gazed 
through  the  little  window  for  a  long,  long  time. 


CHAPTER  XX\N 

MORE  than  a  year  had  passed  away.     April  held  sway 
over  Algeria. 

In  the  white  Arab  house  on  the  hill  Claude  and 
Charmian  still  lived  and  Claude  still  worked.  To  escape  the 
great  heat  of  the  previous  summer  they  had  gone  to  England 
for  a  time,  but  early  October  had  found  them  once  more  at 
Djenan-el-Maqui,  and  since  then  they  had  not  stirred. 

Their  visit  to  London  had  been  a  strange  experience  for 
Charmian. 

They  had  arrived  in  town  at  the  beginning  of  July,  and  had 
stayed  with  Mrs.  Mansfield  in  Berkeley  Square.  Mrs.  Mans- 
field had  not  paid  her  proposed  visit  to  Algiers.  She  had 
written  that  she  was  growing  old  and  lazy,  and  dreaded  a  sea 
voyage.  But  she  had  received  them  with  a  warmth  of  affection 
which  had  earned  their  immediate  forgiveness.  There  was  still 
a  month  of  "season"  to  run,  and  Charmian  went  about  and 
saw  her  old  friends.  But  Claude  refused  to  go  out,  and  re- 
turned at  once  to  orchestral  studies  with  his  "coach."  He 
even  remained  in  London  during  the  whole  of  August  and 
September,  while  Charmian  paid  some  visits,  and  went  to  the 
sea  with  her  mother.  Thus  they  had  been  separated  for  a 
time  after  their  long  sojourn  together  in  the  closest  intimacy. 

Charmian  found  that  she  missed  Claude  very  much.  One 
day  she  said  to  her  mother,  with  pretended  lightness  and 
smiling: 

"  Madre,  I've  got  such  a  habit  of  Claude  and  Claude's  work 
that  I  seem  to  be  in  half  when  I'm  not  with  him." 

Mrs.  Mansfield  wondered  whether  her  son-in-law  felt  in 
half  when  he  was  by  himself  in  London. 

To  Charmian,  coming  back,  London  and  "the  set"  seemed 
changed.  She  had  sometimes  suffered  from  ennui  in  Africa, 
even  from  loneliness  in  the  first  months  there.  She  had  got 
up  dreading  the  empty  days,  and  had  often  longed  to  have  a 

294 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        295 

party  in  the  evening  to  look  forward  to.  In  England  she 
realized  that  not  only  had  she  got  a  habit  of  Claude,  but  that 
she  had  got  a  habit,  or  almost  a  habit,  of  Africa  and  a  quiet 
life  in  the  sunshine  under  blue  skies.  If  the  opera  were 
finished,  the  need  for  living  in  Mustapha  removed,  would 
she  be  glad  not  to  return  to  Djenan-el-Maqui?  The  mere 
thought  of  never  seeing  the  little  white  house  with  its  cupolas 
and  its  flat  roof  again  sent  a  sharp  pang  through  her.  Pierre, 
with  his  arched  eyebrows  and  upraised,  upturned  palm,  "La 
Grande  Jeanne,"  Bibi,  little  Fatma,  they  had  become  almost 
a  dear  part  of  her  life. 

But  soon  she  fell  into  old  ways  of  thought  and  of  action, 
though  she  was  never,  she  believed,  quite  the  same  Charmian 
as  before.  She  longed,  as  of  old,  but  even  more  strongly,  to 
conquer  the  set,  and  this  world  of  pleasure-seekers  and  con- 
noisseurs. But  she  looked  upon  them  from  the  outside, 
whereas  before  she  had  been  inside.  During  her  long  absence 
she  had  certainly  "dropped  out"  a  little.  She  realized  the 
root  indifference  of  most  people  to  those  who  are  not  perpetu- 
ally before  them,  making  a  claim  to  friendship.  When  she 
reappeared  in  London  many  whom  she  had  hitherto  looked 
upon  as  friends  greeted  her  with  a  casual,  "  Oh,  are  you  back 
after  all?  We  thought  you  had  quite  forsaken  us!"  And  it 
was  impossible  for  even  Charmian  to  suppose  that  such  a 
forsaking  would  have  been  felt  as  a  great  affliction. 

This  recognition  on  her  part  of  the  small  place  she  had 
held,  even  as  merely  a  charming  girl,  in  this  society,  made 
Charmian  think  of  Djenan-el-Maqui  with  a  stronger  affection, 
but  also  made  her  long  in  a  new,  and  more  ruthless  way,  to 
triumph  in  London,  as  clever  wives  of  great  celebrities  tri- 
umph. She  saw  Madame  Sennier  several  times,  as  usual 
surrounded  and  feted.  And  Madame  Sennier,  though  she 
nodded  and  said  a  few  words,  scarcely  seemed  to  remember 
who  Charmian  was.  Only  once  did  Charmian  see  a  peculiarly 
keen  expression  in  the  yellow  eyes  as  they  looked  at  her. 
That  was  when  some  mention  was  made  of  a  project  of  Cray- 
ford's,  his  intention  to  build  a  big  opera  house  in  London. 
Madame  Sennier  had  shrugged  her  shoulders.  But  as  she 
answered,  "What  would  be  the  use?  The  Metropolitan  has 


296        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

nearly  killed  him.  Covent  Garden,  with  its  subscription, 
would  simply  finish  him  off.  He  has  moved  Heaven  and  earth 
to  get  Jacques'  new  opera  either  for  America  or  England,  but 
of  course  we  laughed  at  him.  He  may  pretend  as  much  as 
he  likes,  but  he's  got  nothing  up  his  sleeve" — the  yellow  eyes 
had  fixed  themselves  upon  Charmian  with  an  intent  look 
that  was  almost  like  a  look  of  inquiry. 

To  Sennier  she  had  only  spoken  twice.  The  first  time  he 
had  forgotten  who  she  was.  The  second  time  he  had  exclaimed, 
"Ah,  the  syrups!  the  greengage!  and  the  moonlight  among 
the  passion-flowers!"  and  had  greeted  her  with  effusion. 

But  he  had  never  come  to  call  on  her. 

She  still  felt  a  sort  of  fondness  for  him;  but  she  understood 
that  he  was  like  a  child  who  needed  perpetual  petting  and  did 
not  care  very  much  from  whom  it  came. 

The  impression  she  received,  on  coming  back  to  this  world 
after  a  long  absence,  was  of  a  shifting  quicksand.  She  also 
now  knew  absolutely  how  much  of  a  nobody  she  was  in  it. 

She  had  returned  to  Africa  caring  for  it  much  less,  but 
longing  much  more  to  conquer  it  and  to  dominate  it. 

On  that  day  in  October,  a  gorgeous  day  which  had  surely 
lain  long  in  the  heart  of  summer,  when  she  saw  again  the 
climbing  white  town  on  the  hill,  when  later  she  stood  again 
in  the  Arab  court,  hearing  the  French  voices  of  the  servants, 
the  guttural  chatter  of  Bibi  and  Fatma,  seeing  the  three  gold 
fish  making  their  eternal  pilgrimage  through  the  water  shed 
by  the  fountain  into  the  marble  basin,  she  felt  an  intimate 
thrill  at  her  heart.  There  was  something  here  that  she  loved 
as  she  loved  nothing  in  London. 

From  the  night  when  Claude  and  Armand  Gillier  had 
returned  to  Mustapha  after  the  visit  to  Constantine  "the 
opera"  had  been  to  Charmian  almost  as  a  living  thing — a 
thing  for  which  she  had  fought,  from  which  she  had  beaten 
off  enemies.  She  thought  of  it  as  their  child,  Claude's 
and  hers.  They  had  no  other  child.  She  did  not  regret 
that. 

Claude  had  long  ago  learnt  to  work  in  his  home  without 
difficulty.  The  paralysis  which  had  beset  him  in  Kensington 
had  not  returned.  He  was  inclined  to  believe  that  by  con- 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        297 

stant  effort  he  had  strengthened  his  will.  But  he  had  also 
become  thoroughly  accustomed  to  married  life.  And  the 
fact  that  Charmian  had  become  accustomed  to  it,  too,  had 
helped  him  without  his  being  conscious  of  it.  The  embarrass- 
ment of  beginnings  was  gone.  And  something  else  was  gone; 
the  sense  of  secret  combat  which  in  the  first  months  of  their 
marriage  had  made  life  so  difficult  to  both  of  them. 

The  man  had  given  in  to  the  woman.  When  Claude  left 
England  with  Gillier's  bought  libretto  he  was  a  conquered 
man.  And  this  fact  had  brought  about  a  cessation  of  struggle 
and  had  created  a  sensation  of  calm  even  in  the  conquered. 

Every  day  now,  when  Claude  went  up  to  his  room  on  the 
roof  to  work  at  the  opera,  he  was  doing  exactly  what  his  wife 
wished  him  to  do.  By  degrees  he  had  come  to  believe  that 
he  was  also  doing  what  he  wished  to  do. 

He  was  no  longer  reserved  about  his  work  with  Charmian. 
The  barriers  were  broken  down.  The  wife  knew  what  the 
husband  was  doing.  They  "talked  things  over." 

Twice  during  their  long  sojourn  at  Mustapha  they  had  been 
visited  by  Alston  Lake.  And  now,  in  the  first  days  of  April, 
came  a  note  from  Saint  Eugene.  Gillier  was  once  more  in 
Algeria.  He  had  never  given  them  a  sign  of  life  since  he  had 
tried  to  buy  back  his  libretto  from  them.  Now  he  wrote 
formally,  saying  he  was  paying  a  short  visit  to  his  family,  and 
asking  permission  to  call  at  Djenan-el-Maqui  at  any  hour  that 
would  suit  them.  His  note  was  addressed  to  Claude,  who  at 
once  showed  it  to  Charmian. 

"Of  course  we  must  let  him  come,"  Claude  said. 

"Of  course!" 

She  turned  the  note  over,  twisted  it  in  her  fingers. 

"How  I  hate  him!"  she  said.  "I  can't  help  it.  His 
insult  to  you  and — " 

"  Don't  let  us  go  into  all  that  again.    It  is  so  long  ago." 

"This  letter  brings  it  all  back." 

She  made  a  grimace  of  disgust. 

"Why  should  you  see  him?"  said  Claude.  "Let  me  see 
him  alone.  You  can  easily  have  an  engagement.  You  are 
going  to  those  theatricals  at  the  Hotel  Continental  on  Friday. 
Let  me  have  him  here  then." 


298        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

"Shall  I?"  She  glanced  at  Claude.  "No,  I'd  better  be 
liere  too." 

"Why?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know— but  I'd  better!  Tell  him  to  come 
on  Thursday." 

"Lunch?" 

"Oh,  no!    Let  us  just  have  him  in  the  afternoon." 

Gillier  came  at  the  time  appointed,  and  was  received  by 
Charmian,  who  made  a  creditable  effort  to  behave  as  if  she 
were  at  her  ease  and  glad  to  see  him.  She  made  him  sit  down 
with  her  in  the  cosiest  corner  of  the  drawing-room,  gave  him 
coffee  and  a  cigarette,  and  promised  that  Claude  would  come 
in  a  moment. 

In  the  morning  of  that  day  she  had  persuaded  Claude  to 
let  her  have  a  quarter  of  an  hour  alone  with  Gillier.  He  had 
asked  her  why  she  wanted  to  be  alone  with  a  man  she  disliked. 
She  had  replied,  "After  Constantine,  don't  you  think  you 
had  better  leave  the  practical  part  of  it  to  me?"  Claude 
had  reddened  slightly,  but  he  had  only  said,  "Very  well. 
But  I  don't  quite  see  what  you  mean.  We  have  no  reason  to 
suppose  Gillier  has  a  special  purpose  in  coming."  "No, 
But  I  should  like  that  quarter  of  an  hour." 

So  now  she  and  Gillier  sat  together  in  the  shady  drawing- 
room,  and  she  asked  him  about  Paris  and  his  family,  and  he 
replied  with  a  stiff  formality  which  had  in  it  something 
military. 

Directly  Charmian  had  looked  at  Gillier  she  had  realized 
that  he  had  a  definite  purpose  in  coming.  She  was  on  the 
defensive,  but  she  tried  not  to  show  it.  Presently  she  said: 

"Have  you  been  working — writing?" 

"Yes,  madame." 

"Another  libretto?" 

" Madame,"  Gillier  said,  with  a  sort  of  icy  fierceness,  "I 
cannot  believe  that  you  are  good  enough  to  be  genuinely 
interested  in  my  unsuccessful  life." 

After  the  unpleasant  scene  at  Djenan-el-Maqui  Gillier  had 
returned  to  Paris,  shut  himself  in,  and  labored  almost  with 
fury  on  a  libretto  destined  for  Jacques  Sennier.  He  had 
taken  immense  pains  and  trouble,  and  had  not  spared  time. 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        299 

At  last  the  work  had  been  completed,  typed,  and  submitted 
to  Madame  Sennier.  After  a  week  of  anxious  waiting  Gillier 
had  received  the  libretto  with  the  following  note: 

"DEAR  GILLIER, — This  might  do  very  well  for  some  un- 
known genius,  say  Monsieur  Heath,  but  it  is  no  good  to  a  man 
like  Jacques.  Nevertheless,  we  believe  in  you  still,  and  renew 
our  offer.  Send  us  a  fine  libretto,  such  as  I  know  you  can  write, 
and  we  will  pay  you  five  times  as  much  as  anyone  else  would, 
on  account  of  a  royalty.  We  should  not  mind  even  if  someone 
else  had  already  tried  to  set  it.  All  we  care  about  is  to  get 
your  best  work.  HENRIETTE  SENNIER." 

Gillier  had  torn  this  note  up  with  fury.  Then  he  had 
thought  things  over  and  paid  Madame  Sennier  a  visit.  It 
was  this  visit  which  had  prompted  his  return  to  Djenan-el- 
Maqui. 

"But  I  hope  it  won't  be  unsuccessful  much  longer,"  Char- 
mian  said,  with  deliberate  graciousness. 

"I  hope  so  too,  madame." 

Something  in  his  voice,  a  new  tone,  almost  startled  her. 
But  she  continued,  without  any  change  of  manner: 

"We  must  all  hope  for  a  great  success." 

"We,  madame?" 

"You  and  I  and  my  husband." 

Gillier  bit  his  moustache  and  looked  down.  A  heavy 
gloom  seemed  to  have  overspread  him.  After  a  moment  he 
looked  up,  leaned  back,  as  if  determined  to  be  at  his  ease,  and 
said  abruptly: 

"  Monsieur  Sennier  has  completed  a  new  opera.  It  is  to  be 
produced  at  the  Metropolitan  Opera  House  in  New  York  some 
time  next  winter." 

"Is  it?" 

Charmian  tried  to  keep  all  expression  out  of  her  voice  as 
she  spoke. 

"Since  I  last  saw  you,  madame,"  Gillier  continued,  "I 
have  managed  to  get  a  look  at  the  libretto." 

Without  knowing  that  she  did  so  Charmian  leaned  forward 
quickly  and  moved  her  hands. 


300 

"It  does  not  approach  my  work,  the  work  your  husband 
bought  from  me  for  only  one  hundred  pounds,  in  strength 
and  drama." 

"Your  libretto  is  splendid.  Mr.  Lake  and  I  have  always 
thought  so;  and  of  course  my  husband  agrees  with  us.  But 
you  know  that." 

Gillier  pulled  his  thick  moustache,  looked  quickly  round 
the  room,  then  at  his  hands,  which  he  had  abruptly  brought 
down  on  his  knees,  and  then  at  Charmian. 

"I  have  reason  to  believe  that  Jacques  Sennier — or  rather 
Madame  Sennier,  for  she  read  all  the  libretti  sent  in  to  him, 
and  only  showed  him  those  she  thought  worth  considering — 
that  if  Madame  Sennier  had  seen  the  libretto  I  sold  to  your 
husband  Sennier  would  have  set  mine — mine — in  preference 
to  the  one  he  has  set." 

"Indeed!"  said  Charmian,  with  studied  indifference. 

"Yes!"  he  exclaimed,  almost  with  violence. 

"All  this  is  very  interesting.  But  I  don't  see  what  it 
has  to  do  with  me  and  my  husband.  You  were  good  enough 
to  offer  to  buy  back  your  libretto  from  us  last  year.  We 
refused.  Our  refusal — " 

"Your  refusal,  madame!  I  never  spoke  about  the  matter 
to  your  husband.  I  never  asked  him." 

"Have  you  come  here  now  to  ask  him?  Is  that  what  you 
mean,  monsieur?" 

Gillier  got  up,  throwing  his  cigarette  end  into  the  brass 
coffee  tray.  He  was  evidently  much  excited.  As  he  stood 
up  in  front  of  her  Charmian  thought  that  he  looked  suddenly 
more  common,  coarser.  He  thrust  his  hands  into  the  pockets 
of  his  black  trousers. 

"I  must  understand  the  position,"  he  began. 

"It  is  perfectly  clear.  Forgive  me,  monsieur,  but  I  must 
say  I  think  it  rather  bad  taste  on  your  part  to  return  to  a 
subject  which  has  been  finally  disposed  of  and  which  is  very 
disagreeable  to  me." 

"Madame,  I  am  here  to  say  to  you  that  I  cannot  consider 
it  as  finally  disposed  of  till  I  have  discussed  it  with  Monsieur 
Heath.  I  came  here  prepared  to  make  a  proposition." 

"It  is  useless." 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        301 

"Madame,  I  trust  that  your  husband  is  not  endeavoring 
to  avoid  me." 

Charmian  got  up  and  sharply  clapped  her  hands.  The 
Arab  boy,  Bibi,  appeared. 

"Bibi,  ask  monsieur  to  come,"  she  said  to  him  in  French. 

"Bieng,  madame,"  replied  Bibi,  who  turned  and  walked 
softly  away. 

During  the  two  or  three  minutes  which  elapsed  before 
Claude  came  in  Charmian  and  Gillier  said  nothing.  Gillier, 
who,  under  the  influence  of  excitement,  was  losing  his  veneer 
of  good  manners,  moved  about  the  room  pretending  to  ex- 
amine the  few  bibelots  it  contained.  His  face  was  flushed. 
He  still  kept  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  Charmian  sat  still  in 
her  corner,  watching  him.  She  was  too  angry  to  speak. 
And  what  was  there  to  be  said  now?  Although  she  had  a 
good  deal  of  will  she  was  clever  enough  to  realize  when  its  ex- 
ercise would  be  useless.  She  knew  that  she  could  do  nothing 
more  with  this  man.  Otherwise  she  would  not  have  sent  for 
Claude. 

"  F'/d,  Mousou!" 

Bibi  had  returned  and  gently  pointed  to  his  master, 
smiling. 

"Bon  jour,  Gillier!"  said  Claude,  as  the  Frenchman  swung 
round  sharply. 

"Bonjourl" 

They  shook  hands.  Claude  looked  from  Gillier  to  his 
wife. 

"  You  were  smoking ?"  he  said,  glancing  at  the  tray.  "Won't 
you  have  another  cigarette?" 

"Merci!" 

"Anyhow,  I  will." 

He  picked  up  the  cigarette  box. 

"We  haven't  seen  you  for  a  long  while."  He  lit  a  cigar- 
ette. "Aren't  you  going  to  sit  down?" 

After  a  pause  Gillier  sat  down.  His  eyes  were  fixed  on 
Claude. 

"  I  am  glad  you  have  come,"  he  said.  "  Madame  does  not 
quite  understand — " 

"I    understand    perfectly,   Monsieur   Gillier,"    Charmian 


302        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

interrupted.  "Pray  don't  endow  me  with  a  stupidity  which 
I  don't  possess." 

"I  prefer  at  any  rate  to  explain  the  reason  of  my  visit  to 
Monsieur  Heath,  madame." 

"Have  you  come  with  a  special  object  then?"  said  Claude. 

"Yes." 

"  By  all  means  tell  me  what  it  is. 

"Man  Dieul"  said  Gillier.  "What  is  the  good  of  a  cloud 
of  words  between  two  men?  I  want  to  buy  back  the  libretto 
I  sold  to  you  more  than  a  year  ago." 

Charmian  gazed  at  her  husband.  To  her  surprise  his 
usually  sensitive  face  did  not  show  her  what  was  passing  in 
his  mind.  Indeed  she  thought  it  looked  peculiarly  inexpres- 
sive as  he  replied: 

"Do  you?    Why?" 

"Why?  Because  I  don't  think  you  and  I  are  suited  to 
work  together.  I  don't  think  we  could  ever  make  a  satis- 
factory combination  in  art.  This  has  been  my  opinion  ever 
since  I  was  with  you  at  Constantine." 

"More  than  a  year  ago.  And  you  only  come  here  and 
say  so  now!" 

Gillier  was  silent  and  fidgeted  on  the  divan. 

"Surely  you  must  have  some  other  reason?"  said  Claude 
in  a  very  quiet,  almost  unnaturally  quiet  voice. 

"That  is  one  reason,  and  an  excellent  one.  Another  is, 
however,  that  if  you  will  consent  to  sell  me  back  my  libretto 
I  believe  I  could  get  it  taken  up  by  a  man,  a  composer,  who  is 
more  in  sympathy  with  me  and  my  artistic  amis  than  you 
could  ever  be." 

"I  see.  And  what  about  all  the  months  of  work  I  have 
put  in?  What  about  all  the  music  I  have  composed?  Are 
you  here  to  ask  me  to  throw  it  away,  or  what?" 

Gillier  was  silent. 

"Surely  your  proposition  isn't  a  serious  one?"  said  Claude, 
still  speaking  with  complete  self-control. 

"  But  I  say  it  is!  I  say" — Gillier  raised  his  voice — "that 
it  is  serious.  I  am  a  poor  man,  and  I  am  sick  of  waiting 
for  success.  I  sold  my  libretto  to  you  in  a  hurry,  not  knowing 
what  I  was  doing.  Now  I  have  a  chance,  a  great  chance,  of 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        303 

being  associated  with  someone  who  is  already  famous,  who 
would  make  the  success  of  my  libretto  a  certainty — " 

"A  chance,  when  your  libretto  is  my  property!"  inter- 
rupted Claude. 

"Oh,  I  know  as  well  as  you  do  that  it's  a  hard  thing  to  ask 
you  to  throw  away  all  these  months  of  labor!  I  don't  think 
I  could  have  done  it,  though  in  this  world  every  man,  every 
artist  especially,  must  think  of  himself,  if  it  wasn't  for  one 
thing." 

"  And  that  is—  ?" 

"Your  heart  isn't  in  the  work!"  said  Gillier  defiantly, 
but  with  a  curious  air  of  conviction — the  conviction  of  an 
acute  man  who  had  made  a  discovery  which  could  not  be 
contested  or  gainsaid. 

"That's  not  true,  Monsieur  Gillier!"  said  Charmian,  with 
hot  energy. 

Claude  said  nothing,  and  Ciller  continued,  raising  his  voice: 

"It  is  true.  Your  talent  and  mine  are  not  fitted  to  be 
joined  together,  and  you  are  artist  enough  to  know  it  as  well  as 
I  do.  I  haven't  heard  your  music;  but  I  can  tell.  I  may  be 
poor,  I  may  be  unknown — that  doesn't  matter!  I've  got  the 
instinct  that  doesn't  lie,  can't  lie.  If  I  had  known  you  as  I  do 
now,  before  I  had  sold  my  libretto,  you  never  should  have  had 
it,  even  if  you  had  offered  me  five  hundred  pounds  instead  of  a 
hundred,  and  nobody  else  would  have  looked  at  it.  With 
your  temperament,  with  your  way  of  thinking,  you'll  never 
make  a  success  of  it — never!  I  tell  you  that — I  who  am 
speaking  to  you!" 

The  veins  in  his  temples  swelled,  and  he  frowned. 

"Give  me  back  my  libretto  and  take  back  your  money! 
Let  me  have  my  chance  of  success.  Madame — she  is  hard! 
She  cares  nothing!  But — " 

"Monsieur,  I  must  ask  you  to  leave  my  wife's  name  out," 
said  Claude. 

And  for  the  first  time  since  he  had  come  into  the  room  he 
spoke  with  stern  determination. 

He  had  become  very  pale,  and  now  looked  strangely  moved. 

"I  won't  have  her  name  brought  in,"  he  added.  "This  is 
my  affair." 


304        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

"Very  well!    Will  you  let  me  buy  back  my  libretto?" 

Charmian  expected  an  instant  stern  refusal  from  her  hus- 
band. But  after  Gillier's  question  there  was  a  prolonged  pause. 
She  wanted  to  break  it,  to  answer  fiercely  for  Claude;  but  she 
did  not  dare  to.  For  a  moment  something  in  her  husband's 
look  and  manner  dominated  her.  For  a  moment  she  was  in 
subjection.  She  sat  still  staring  at  Claude,  waiting  for  him  to 
speak.  He  sat  looking  down,  and  it  seemed  to  her  as  if  he 
were  wrestling  as  Jacob  wrestled  with  the  angel.  His  white 
forehead  drew  her  eyes.  She  was  filled  with  fear;  but  when  he 
looked  up  at  her  the  fear  grew.  She  felt  almost  sick— sick 
with  apprehension. 

"  Claude !"  she  said.    "  Oh,  Claude  I" 

It  seemed  that  his  eyes  had  put  a  great  question  to  her,  and 
now  her  voice  had  answered  it. 

Claude  turned  to  Armand  Gillier. 

"Monsieur,"  he  said,  "you  can't  have  your  libretto  back. 
It's  mine,  and  I'm  going  to  keep  it." 

When  Gillier  was  gone  Charmian  said,  almost  in  a  faltering 
voice,  and  with  none  of  her  usual  self-possession  of  manner: 

"How — how  could  you  bear  that  man's  insults  as  you 
did?" 

"His  insults?" 

"Yes." 

Claude  looked  at  her  in  silence.  And  again  she  was  con- 
scious of  fear. 

"Don't  let  us  ever  speak  of  this  again,"  he  answered 
at  last. 

He  went  away. 

That  day  he  was  in  his  workroom  till  very  late.  He  did 
not  come  to  tea.  The  evening  fell;  but  he  was  not  working 
on  the  opera.  Charmian  heard  him  playing  Bach. 


At  the  end  of  April  Alston  Lake  came  once  more  to  visit 
them. 

Since  those  London  days  when  they  had  first  met  him  Lake 
had  made  great  progress  toward  the  fulfilment  of  his  ambition. 
His  energy  and  will  were  beginning  to  reap  a  good  reward.  He 


THE  WAY  O.F  AMBITION        305 

was  making  money,  enough  money  to  live  upon;  but  he  had 
still  to  pay  back  his  big  debt  to  Jacob  Crayford,  had  still  to 
achieve  his  great  desire,  an  appearance  in  Grand  Opera.  When 
he  arrived  at  Djenan-el-Maqui  he  brought  with  him,  as  of  old, 
an  infectious  atmosphere  of  enthusiasm.  With  his  iron  will  he 
combined  a  light  heart.  He  had  none  of  the  childishness  that 
surprised,  and  sometimes  charmed,  in  Jacques  Sennier,  but 
much  that  was  boyish  still  pleasantly  lingered  with  him.  In 
him,  too,  there  was  something  courageous  that  inspired  courage 
in  others. 

This  time  he  announced  he  could  stay  for  a  month  if  they 
did  not  mind.  He  wanted  a  thorough  rest  before  the  many 
concerts  he  was  going  to  sing  at  during  the  London  season. 
Both  Charmian  and  Claude  were  delighted.  When  Claude 
heard  of  it  he  was  silent  for  a  moment.  Then  he  began  to 
reckon. 

"The  thirtieth  to-day,  isn't  it?  By  a  month  do  you  mean 
a  month  or  four  weeks?" 

"Well,  four  weeks,  old  chap!" 

"That  is  less  than  a  month." 

"I  wish  it  weren't.  But  I  have  to  sing  in  London  at  the 
Bechstein  Hall  early  in  June.  So  I'm  running  it  pretty 
close  as  it  is." 

"May  the  twenty-eighth  you  go,  then,"  said  Claude. 

" That's  it.    But  why  these  higher  mathematics?" 

Claude  only  smiled  and  went  out  of  the  room. 

"What  is  he  up  to,  Mrs.  Charmian?"  asked  Lake  mystified. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  answered. 

"Does  he  want  to  get  rid  of  me?  Is  that  why  he  was  so 
keen  to  know  whether  it  was  four  weeks  or  a  month?"  said 
Lake,  laughing. 

"I  am  afraid  that  probably  is  it.  But  come  up  and  see 
the  flowers  I've  put  in  your  room." 

"This  is  a  little  Paradise,"  said  Lake,  in  his  ringing  baritone 
voice.  "  Sometimes  this  winter  in  Paris,  when  I  was  all  in, 
don't  you  know — 

"All  in?" 

"Blues." 

"Oh,  yes!" 

20 


306        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

"I'd  think  of  Djenan-el-Maqui,  and  wish  I  was  a  composer 
instead  of  a  singer — for  a  fifth  of  a  minute." 

" Oh!"  she  said  reproachfully.     " Only  a  fifth!" 

tll  know.  It  wasn't  long.  But  you  see  I'm  born  to  sing, 
so  I'm  bound  to  love  it  more  than  anything  else.  Making  a 
noise — oh,  it's  rare!" 

He  opened  his  mouth  and  ran  up  a  scale  to  the  high  A. 

"I  can  get  there  pretty  well  now,  don't  you  think?" 

"Splendid!  Your  voice  gets  bigger  and  bigger!"  she  said, 
with  real  enthusiasm.  "But  it's  almost — " 

He  stopped  her. 

"I  know  what  you're  going  to  say;  but  I  shall  always  be 
a  baritone.  If  you  knew  as  much  as  I  do  about  baritones 
turned  into  tenors,  you'd  say,  'Leave  it  alone,  my  boy!'  and 
that's  what  I'm  going  to  do.  Now  what  about  these  flowers? 
It  is  good  to  be  here." 

Claude  did  not  join  Alston  Lake  in  making  holiday.  In- 
deed, Charmian  noticed  that  he  was  working  much  harder 
than  usual,  as  if  Lake's  coming  had  been  an  incentive  to  him. 

"I  don't  apologize  to  you,  Alston,"  he  said. 

"Odd  if  you  did  when  I  was  the  first  to  try  and  set  you 
on  to  an  opera.  Besides,  you  can't  get  ahead  too  fast  now. 
There's—" 

He  stopped. 

"Crayford'll  be  over  this  summer,"  he  remarked,  giving  a 
casual  tone  to  his  voice. 

"Ah!"  said  Claude. 

And  the  conversation  dropped. 

Only  in  the  early  morning,  and  for  an  hour,  or  an  hour  and 
a  half  after  lunch,  did  Claude  intermit  his  labors.  In  the 
morning  the  three  of  them  rode,  on  good  horses  hired  from  the 
Vitoz  stables.  After  lunch  they  sat  in  the  little  court  of  the 
fountain,  smoked  and  talked.  Conversation  never  flagged 
when  Alston  was  there.  His  young  energy  bred  a  desire  for 
expression  in  those  about  him.  And  Charmian  and  Claude 
were  now  his  most  intimate  friends.  He  identified  himself 
with  them  in  a  charming  way,  was  devoted  to  their  fortunes, 
and  assumed,  without  a  trace  of  conceit,  their  devotion  to  his. 
When  Claude,  about  three  o'clock,  got  up  and  went  away  to 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        307 

his  workroom  Alston  often  went  off  for  a  stroll  alone.  Between 
tea  and  dinner  time,  if  Charmian  had  no  engagement,  she  and 
Alston  walked  together  in  the  scented  Bois  de  Boulogne,  past 
"Tananarive,"  or  drove  down  to  the  Jardin  d'Essai,  and  spent 
an  hour  there  near  the  shimmering  sea. 

In  these  many  intimate  hours  Charmian  learnt  to  appreciate 
the  chivalry  and  delicacy  peculiar  to  well-bred  American  men 
in  their  relations  with  women.  Although  she  and  Alston  were 
both  young,  and  she  was  an  attractive  woman,  she  felt  as  safe 
with  him  as  if  he  were  her  brother.  His  life  in  Paris  had  left 
him  entirely  unspoiled,  had  even  left  him  in  possession  of  the 
characteristic  and  open-hearted  naivete  which  was  one  of  his 
chief  attractions,  though  he  was  quite  unaware  of  it.  She  was 
very  happy  with  Alston.  But  often  she  thought  of  Claude, 
far  away  on  the  hill,  shut  in,  resigning  all  this  freedom,  this 
delicious  open-air  life,  which  she  was  enjoying  with  his  friend. 

''He's  working  almost  too  hard,"  she  said  one  day  when 
they  were  sitting  in  the  Jardin  d'Essai,  "and  he  will  work  at 
night  now.  He  never  used  to  do  that.  Don't  you  think 
he's  beginning  to  look  rather  white  and  worn  out?" 

She  spoke  with  some  anxiety. 

"Sometimes  he  does  look  a  bit  tired,"  Alston  allowed. 
"But  a  man's  bound  to  when  he  puts  his  back  into  a  thing. 
And  there's  not  much  doubt  as  to  whether  old  Claude's  back 
is  in  the  opera.  I  say,  Mrs.  Charmian,  how  far  has  he  got 
exactly?" 

"Practically  the  whole  of  the  music  is  composed,  I  believe. 
It's  the  orchestration  that  takes  such  a  lot  of  time." 

"Well,  and  how  far  has  that  got?  Claude's  never  told  me 
plump  out.  Composers  never  do.  And  I  know  better  than 
to  pump  them.  It's  fatal — that!  They  simply  can't  stand 
it." 

"I  know.  I  believe  the  opera  might  be  ready  by  the  end 
of  this  year." 

"Not  before  then?" 

They  looked  at  each  other,  then  Charmian  said: 

"Oh,  Alston,  if  you  only  knew  how  difficult  it  is  to  me  to 
wait — to  wait  and  not  to  show  any  impatience  to  him.  Some- 
times— well,  now  and  then,  I've  shut  myself  in  and  cried  with 


308        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

impatience,  cried  angrily.  I've  wanted  to  bite  things.  One 
day  I  actually  did  bite  a  pillow." 

She  laughed,  but  her  cheeks  were  flushed. 

"It's  the  perpetual  keeping  it  in  that  is  such  a  torment. 
I  know  how  wicked  it  would  be  to  hurry  him.  And  he  does 
work  so  hard.  And  I've  heard  of  people  taking  ten  years  over 
an  opera.  Claude  only  began  about  a  year  and  five  months 
ago.  He's  been  marvellously  quick,  really.  But,  oh,  some- 
times I  feel  as  if  this  suppressed  impatience  were  making  me  ill, 
physically  and  mentally,  as  if  it  were  a  kind  of  poison  stealing 
all  through  me!  Can  you  understand?" 

"Can  I?  You  bet!  I  only  wish  the  thing  could  be  ready 
before  Crayford  goes  back  to  the  States." 

"When  does  he  go?" 

"Some  time  in  September,  I  believe.  He  goes  on  the 
Continent  after  July.  Of  course,  July  he's  in  London,  June 
too.  Then  he  has  his  cure  at  Divonne.  If  only —  When  do 
you  come  to  London?" 

Charmian  suddenly  grasped  his  arm. 

"Alston,  I'll  keep  him  here,  give  up  London,  anything  to 
have  the  opera  finished  by  the  end  of  August!" 

"Well,  but  the  heat!" 

"I  don't  believe  it's  too  hot  upon  the  hill  where  we  are, 
with  all  those  trees.  Every  afternoon  I  expect  there's  a 
breeze  from  the  sea.  I  know  we  could  stand  it.  It's  only 
April  now.  That  would  mean  four  solid  months  of  steady 
work.  But  then?" 

"  I'd  bring  Crayford  over." 

"Would  he  come?" 

"I'd  make  him." 

"But  we  might— " 

"No,  Mrs.  Charmian.  He  ought  to  hear  it  in  Mustapha. 
I  know  him.  He's  a  hard  business  man.  But  he's  awfully 
susceptible  too.  And  then  he's  great  on  scenic  effects.  Now, 
he's  never  been  in  Africa.  Think  of  the  glamour  of  it,  espe- 
cially in  summer,  when  the  real  Africa  emerges,  by  Gee,  in  all  its 
blue  and  fire !  We'd  plunge  him  in  it,  you  and  I.  That  Casbah 
scene — you  know,  the  third  act!  I'd  take  him  there  by  moon- 
light on  a  September  night — full  moon — show  him  the  women 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        309 

on  their  terraces  and  in  their  courts,  the  town  dropping  down 
to  the  silver  below,  while  the  native  music — by  Gee!  We'd 
dazzle  him,  we'd  spread  the  magic  carpet  for  him,  we'd  carry 
him  away  till  he  couldn't  say  no,  till  he'd  be  as  mad  on  the 
thing  as  we  are!" 

"Oh,  Alston,  if  we  could!" 

She  had  caught  all  his  enthusiasm.  It  seemed  to  her  that 
in  North  Africa  Mr.  Crayford  could  not  refuse  the  opera. 
From  that  moment  she  had  made  up  her  mind.  No  London 
season!  Whatever  happened,  she  and  Claude  were  going  to 
remain  at  Djenan-el-Maqui  till  the  opera  was  finished,  finished 
to  the  last  detail.  That  very  evening  she  spoke  about  it  to 
Claude. 

"Claudie,"  she  said.  "Are  you  very  keen  on  going  to 
London  this  year?" 

He  looked  at  her  as  if  almost  startled. 

"I?    But,  surely — do  you  mean  that  you  don't  want  to  go?" 

She  moved  her  head. 

"Not  one  little  bit." 

"Well,  but  then  where  do  you  wish  to  go?" 

"Where?    Why  should  we  go  anywhere?" 

"Stay  here?" 

"  I've  come  to  love  this  little  house,  the  garden,  even  those 
absurd  goldfish  that  are  always  looking  for  nothing." 

"Well,  but  the  heat!" 

His  voice  did  not  sound  reluctant  or  protesting,  only  a  little 
doubtful  and  surprised. 

"Lots  of  people  stay.  Algiers  doesn't  empty  of  human 
beings,  only  of  travellers,  because  it's  summer.  And  we  are 
up  on  a  height." 

"That's  true.    And  I  could  work  on  quietly." 

"Absolutely  undisturbed." 

"The  only  thing  is  I  meant  to  see  Jernington." 

Jernington  was  the  professor  with  whom  Claude  studied 
orchestration  in  London. 

"  Get  him  over  here." 

"Jernington!    Why,  he  never  leaves  London!" 

"  Get  him  to  for  a  month.  We'll  pay  all  his  expenses  and 
everything,  of  course." 


310        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

"How  you  go  ahead!"  he  said,  laughing.  "You  must 
be  a  twin  of  Alston's,  I  think." 

"What  has  got  to  be  done  can  be  done." 

"Well,  but  the  expense;  you  know,  Charmian,  we  live 
right  up  to  our  income." 

"Hang  the  expense!    Oh,  as  Alston  would  say!" 

He  laughed. 

"You  really  are  a  marvellous  wife!" 

"Ami?    Ami?" 

"I  might  sound  old  Jernington.  He'll  think  I'm  raving 
mad,  but  still — " 

"I  only  hope,"  she  said,  smiling  and  eager,  "that  he  won't 
be  so  raving  sane  as  to  refuse." 

"But  what  will  Madre  think,  not  seeing  you — us,  I  mean?" 

Charmian  looked  grave. 

"Yes,  I  know.     But  Madre  has  never  come  to  see  us  here." 

"Oh,  Charmian,  there  could  never  be  a  cloud  between  Madre 
and  us!" 

"No,  no,  never!    Still,  why  has  she  never  come?" 

"  She  really  hates  the  sea.  You  know  she  has  never  in  her 
life  done  more  than  cross  the  Channel." 

"Do  you  think  that  is  the  reason  why  she  has  never  come?" 

"How  can  I  know?" 

"Claude,  Madre  is  strange  sometimes.  Don't  you  think 
so?" 

"  Strange?  She  is  absolutely  herself.  She  does  not  take  any- 
one else's  color,  if  that  is  what  you  mean.  I  love  that  in  her." 

"So  do  I.     Still,  I  think  she  is  strange." 

At  this  moment  Alston  came  in  and  the  conversation 
dropped.  But  both  husband  and  wife  thought  many  times 
of  "Madre"  that  day,  and  not  without  a  certain  uneasiness. 
Was  the  heart  of  the  mother  with  them  in  their  enterprise? 

Charmian  put  that  question  to  herself.  But  Claude  did 
not  put  it.  He  thought  of  Mrs.  Mansfield's  intense  and  fiery 
eyes.  They  saw  far,  saw  deep.  He  loved  them,  the  look  in 
them.  But  he  must  try  to  forget  them.  He  must  give  himself 
to  the  enthusiasm  of  his  wife  and  of  Alston  Lake. 

He  sent  a  long  telegram  to  Jernington,  saying  how  difficult  it 
was  for  him  to  leave  Mustapha,  and  begging  Jernington  to 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        311 

come  over  during  the  summer  so  that  they  might  work  to- 
gether in  quiet.  All  expenses  were  to  be  paid.  Next  day  he 
received  a  telegram  from  Jernington:  "Very  difficult  is  it 
absolutely  impossible  for  you  to  come  to  England?" 

"  I'll  answer  that,"  said  Charmian. 

She  telegraphed,  "Absolutely  impossible — HEATH." 

In  the  late  evening  a  second  telegram  came  from  Jernington: 
"Very  well  suppose  I  must  come — JERNINGTON." 

Charmian  laughed  as  she  read  it  over  Claude's  shoulder. 

"The  pathos  of  it,"  she  said.  "Poor  old  Jernington!  He 
is  horror-stricken.  Bury  St.  Edmunds  has  been  his  farthest 
beat  till  now  except  for  his  year  in  Germany.  Claudie,  he  loves 
the  opera  or  he  would  never  have  consented  to  come.  I  felt  it 
was  a  test.  The  opera,  the  child,  has  stood  it  triumphantly. 
I  love  old  Jernington.  And  he  is  a  first-rate  critic,  isn't  he?" 

"Of  orchestration,  certainly." 

"That's  half  the  battle  in  an  opera.  I  feel  so  happy.  Let 
us  have  an  audition  to-night!" 

"All  right,"  he  said. 

"And  play  us  an  act  right  through;  the  first  act.  Alston 
has  only  heard  it  in  bits." 

"I  don't  really  care  for  anyone  to  hear  it  yet,"  Claude  said, 
with  obvious  reluctance. 

Yet  he  desired  a  verdict — of  praise.  He  longed  for  encour- 
agement. In  old  days,  when  he  had  composed  for  himself,  he 
had  felt  indifferent  to  that.  But  now  he  was  working  on  some- 
thing which  was  planned,  which  was  being  executed,  with  the 
intention  to  strike  upon  the  imagination  of  a  big  public.  He 
was  no  longer  indifferent.  He  was  secretly  anxious.  He 
longed  to  be  told  that  what  he  was  doing  was  good. 

That  evening  he  was  genuinely  warmed  by  the  enthusiasm 
of  his  wife  and  of  Alston. 

"And  surely,"  he  said  to  himself,  "they  would  be  inclined 
to  be  more  critical  than  others,  to  be  hypercritical." 

He  forgot  that  in  some  natures  desire  creates  conviction. 

On  the  last  day  of  Alston's  visit  Charmian  and  he  under- 
stood why  Claude's  mathematical  powers  had  been  brought  to 
bear  on  the  question  of  its  exact  duration.  Claude  himself 
explained  with  rather  a  rueful  face. 


312        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

"I  hoped — I  thought  if  you  were  going  to  stay  for  the 
extra  days  I  might  possibly  have  the  finale  of  the  opera  finished. 
Even  when  you  told  me  your  month  meant  four  weeks  I 
thought  I  would  have  a  tremendous  try- to  complete  it.  Well, 
I  have  had  a  tremendous  try.  But  I've  failed.  I  must  have 
two  more  weeks,  I  believe,  before  I  conquer  the  monster." 

He  was  looking  very  pale,  had  dark  rings  under  his  eyes, 
and  moved  his  hands  nervously  while  he  was  speaking. 

"That  was  it!"  exclaimed  Alston. 

"Yes,  that  was  it." 

Charmian  and  Alston  exchanged  a  quick  glance. 

"When  you've  done  the  finale,"  Alston  said,  with  the 
firmness  of  one  who  spoke  with  permission,  even  perhaps  by 
special  request,  "will  the  opera  be  practically  finished?" 

"Finished?     Good  Heavens,  no!" 

"Well,  but  if  it's  the  finale  of  the  whole  opera?"  said 
Charmian. 

"I've  got  bits  here  and  there  to  do,  and  a  lot  to  re-do." 

Again  Charmian  and  the  American  exchanged  glances. 

"I  say,  old  chap,"  said  Alston.  "You  read  Balzac,  don't 
you?" 

"Of  course.    But  what  has  that  to  do  with  the  opera?" 

"Did  you  ever  read  that  story  of  his  about  a  painter  who 
•was  always  striving  to  attain  perfection,  could  never  let  a 
picture  alone,  was  for  ever  adding  new  touches,  painting  details 
out  and  other  details  in?  One  day  he  called  in  his  friends  to 
see  his  masterpiece.  When  they  came  they  found  a  mere  mess 
of  paint  representing  nothing." 

"Well?"  said  Claude,  rather  stiffly. 

"You've  got  a  splendid  talent.  I  hope  you're  going  to 
trust  it." 

Claude  said  nothing,  and  Alston,  in  his  easy,  almost  boyish 
way,  glanced  off  to  some  other  topic.  But  before  he  started 
for  England  he  said  to  Charmian: 

"  Do  watch  him  a  bit  if  you  can,  Mrs.  Charmian,  for  over- 
elaboration.  Don't  let  him  work  it  to  death,  I  mean,  till  all 
the  spontaneity  is  gone.  I  believe  that's  a  danger  with  him. 
Somehow  I  think  he  lacks  complete  confidence  in  himself." 

"You  see  it's  the  first  time  he  has  ever  tried  to  do  an  opera." 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        313 

"I  know.  It's  natural  enough.  But  do  watch  out  for 
over-elaboration. ' ' 

"I'll  try  to.     But  I  have  to  be  very  careful  with  Claude." 

"How  d'you  mean  exactly?" 

"He  can  be  very  reserved." 

"Yes,  but  you  know  how  to  take  him.  And — well — we 
can't  let  the  opera  be  anything  but  a  big  success,  can  we?" 

If  Claude  had  heard  that  "we!" 

"I  say,  shall  we  walk  around  the  garden?"  Alston  added, 
after  a  pause.  "It  isn't  quite  tune  to  go,  and  I  want  to  talk 
over  things  before  Claude  comes  down  to  see  the  last  of  me." 

"Yes,  yes." 

They  went  out,  and  descended  the  steps  from  the  terrace. 

"I  wanted  to  tell  you,  Mrs.  Charmian,  that  I'm  going  to 
bring  Crayford  over  whatever  happens,  whether  the  opera's 
done  or  not.  There's  heaps  ready  for  him  to  judge  by.  And 
you  must  read  him  the  libretto." 

"I?"  exclaimed  Charmian,  startled. 

"Yes,  you.  Study  it  up!  Recite  it  to  yourself.  Learn 
to  give  it  all  and  more  than  its  value.  That  libretto  is  going 
to  catch  hold  of  Crayford  right  away,  if  you  read  it,  and  read 
it  well." 

When  she  had  recovered  from  her  first  shock  of  surprise 
Charmian  felt  radiantly  happy.  She  had  something  to  do. 
Alston,  with  his  shrewd  outlook,  was  bringing  her  a  step  farther 
into  this  enterprise.  He  was  right.  She  remembered  Cray- 
ford.  A  woman  should  read  him  the  libretto,  and  in  a  decor — 
swiftly  her  imagination  began  to  work.  The  decor  should  be 
perfection;  and  her  gown! 

"  How  clever  of  you  to  think  of  that,  Alston!"  she  exclaimed. 
"I'll  study  as  if  I  were  going  to  be  an  actress." 

"That's  the  proposition!  By  Jove,  you  and  I  understand 
each  other  over  this.  I  know  Crayford  by  heart.  We've  got 
to  what  the  French  call  'eblouir'  him  when  we  get  him  here. 
We  must  play  upon  him  with  the  scenery  proposition;  what  he 
can  do  in  the  way  of  wonderful  new  stage  effects.  When 
we've  got  him  thoroughly  worked  up  over  the  libretto  and  the 
scenery  prop.,  we'll  begin  to  let  him  hear  the  music,  but  not  a 
jroment  before.  We  can't  be  too  careful,  Mrs.  Charmian. 


314        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

Crayford's  a  man  who  doesn't  start  going  in  a  hurry  on  newly 
laid  rails.  He  wants  to  test  every  sleeper  pretty  nearly.  But 
once  get  him  going,  and  the  evening  express  from  New  York 
City  to  Chicago  isn't  in  it  with  him.  Now  you  and  I  have 
got  to  get  him  started  before  ever  he  comes  to  old  Claude.  In 
fact—" 

He  paused,  put  one  finger  to  his  firm  round  chin. 

"But  we  can  decide  that  a  bit  later  on." 

"That?    What,  Alston?" 

"  I  was  going  to  say  it  might  be  as  well  to  get  Claude  out  of 
the  way  for  a  day  or  two  while  we  start  on  old  Crayford  here. 
I  suppose  it  could  be  managed  somehow?" 

"Alston — "  Charmian  stopped  on  the  path  between  the 
geraniums.  "Anything  can  be  managed  that  will  help  to 
persuade  Mr.  Crayford  to  accept  Claude's  opera." 

"Right  you  are.  That's  talking!  I'll  think  it  all  over 
and  let  you  know." 

"Oh,"  she  exclaimed.  "How  I  wish  the  end  of  August 
was  here!  You'll  be  in  London.  All  your  time  will  be  filled 
up.  You'll  be  singing,  being  applauded,  getting  on.  And  I 
have  to  sit  here,  and  wait — wait." 

"You'll  be  studying  the  libretto." 

"So  I  shall!" 

She  sent  him  a  grateful  look. 

"What  a  good  friend  you  are  to  us,  Alston!"  she  said,  and 
there  was  heart  at  that  moment  in  her  voice. 

"And  haven't  you  been  good  friends  to  me?  What  about 
the  studio?  What  about  the  Prophet's  Chamber?  Why, 
you've  given  me  a  sort  of  a  home  and  family,  you  and  old 
Claude.  I  can  tell  you  I've  often  felt  lonesome  in  Europe, 
I've  often  felt  all  in,  right  away  from  everybody,  and  my 
Dad  trying  to  starve  me  out,  and  all  my  people  dead  against 
what  I  was  doing.  Since  I've  known  you,  well,  I've  felt  quite 
bully  in  comparison  with  what  it  used  to  be.  Claude's  success 
and  yours,  it's  just  going  to  be  my  success  too.  And  that's  all 
there  is  to  it." 

He  wrung  her  hand  and  shouted  for  Claude. 

It  was  nearly  time  for  him  to  go. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

JERNINGTON,  after  sending  to  Claude  several  anxious  and 
indeed  almost  deplorable  letters,  pleading  to  be  let  off  his 
bargain  by  telegram,  arrived  in  Algiers  in  the  middle  of  the 
following  July,  with  a  great  deal  of  fuss  and  very  little  luggage. 

The  Heaths  welcomed  him  warmly. 

Although  he  was  a  native  of  Suffolk,  and  had  only  spent 
a  year  in  Germany,  he  succeeded  in  looking  almost  exactly 
like  a  German  student.  Rather  large  and  bulky,  he  had  a 
quite  hairless  face,  very  fair,  with  Teutonic  features,  and  a 
high  forehead,  above  which  the  pale  hair  of  his  head  was 
cropped  like  the  coat  of  a  newly  singed  horse.  His  eyes  were 
pale  blue,  introspective  and  romantic.  At  the  back  of  his 
neck,  just  above  his  low  collar,  appeared  a  neat  little  roll  of 
white  flesh.  Charmian  thought  he  looked  as  if  he  had  once, 
consenting,  been  gently  boiled.  A  flowing  blue  tie,  freely 
peppered  with  ample  white  spots,  gave  a  Bohemian  touch  to 
his  pleasant  and  innocent  appearance.  He  was  dressed  for 
cool  weather  in  England,  and  wore  boots  with  square  toes 
and  elastic  sides. 

In  his  special  line  he  was  a  man  of  extraordinary  talent. 

He  had  intended  to  be  a  composer,  but  had  little  faculty 
for  original  work.  His  knowledge  of  composition,  never- 
theless, was  enormous,  and  he  was  the  best  orchestral 
"coach"  in  England. 

His  heart  was  in  his  work.  His  devotion  to  a  clever  pupil 
knew  no  limits.  And  he  considered  Claude  the  cleverest 
pupil  he  had  ever  taught. 

Charmian,  therefore,  accepted  him  with  enthusiasm — 
boots,  tie,  little  roll  of  white  flesh,  the  whole  of  him. 

He  settled  down  with  them  in  Mustapha,  once  he  had  been 
conveyed  into  the  house,  as  comfortably  as  a  cat  in  front  of 
whom,  with  every  tender  precaution,  has  been  placed  a  bowl 
of  rich  milk.  In  a  couple  of  days  it  seemed  as  if  he  had  always 
been  there. 

315 


316        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

Charmian  did  not  see  very  much  of  him.  The  two  men 
toiled  with  diligence  despite  the  great  heat  which  lay  over 
the  land.  They  began  early  in  the  morning  before  the  sun 
was  high,  rested  and  slept  in  the  middle  of  the  day,  resumed 
work  about  five,  and,  with  an  interval  for  dinner,  went  on  till 
late  in  the  night. 

The  English  Colony  had  long  since  broken  up.  Only  the 
British  Vice-Consul  and  his  wife  remained,  and  they  lived  a 
good  way  out  in  the  country.  Since  May  few  people  had 
come  to  disturb  the  peace  of  Djenan-el-Maqui.  Charmian 
dwelt  in  a  strange  and  sun-smitten  isolation.  She  was  very 
much  alone.  Only  now  and  then  some  French  acquaintance 
would  call  to  see  her  and  sit  with  her  for  a  little  while  at  even- 
ing in  the  garden,  or  in  the  courtyard  of  the  fountain. 

The  beauty,  the  fierce  romance  of  this  land,  sometimes 
excited  her  spirit.  Sometimes,  with  fiery  hands,  it  lulled  her 
into  a  condition  almost  of  apathy.  She  listened  to  the  foun- 
tain, she  looked  at  the  sea  which  was  always  blue,  and  she 
felt  almost  as  if  some  part  of  her  nature  had  fallen  away  from 
her,  leaving  her  vague  and  fragmentary,  a  Charmian  lacking 
some  virtue,  or  vice,  that  had  formerly  been  hers  and  had 
made  her  salient.  But  this  apathy  did  not  last  long.  The 
sound  of  Jernington's  strangely  German  voice  talking  loudly 
above  would  disturb  it,  perhaps,  or  the  noise  of  chords  or 
passages  powerfully  struck  upon  the  piano.  And  immediately 
the  child  was  with  her  again,  she  was  busy  thinking,  planning, 
hoping,  longing,  concentrated  on  the  future  of  the  child. 

She  had  studied  the  libretto  minutely,  had  practised  read- 
ing it  aloud.  It  was  of  course  written  in  French,  and  she 
found  a  clever  woman,  retired  from  a  theatrical  career  in  Paris, 
Madame  Thenant,  who  gave  her  lessons  in  elocution,  and  who 
finally  said  that  she  read  the  libretto  "assez  bien."  This  from 
Madame  Thenant,  who  had  played  Dowagers  at  the  Comedie 
Francaise,  was  a  high  compliment.  Charmian  felt  that  she 
was  ready  to  make  an  effect  on  Jacob  Crayford.  She  was  in 
active  correspondence  with  Alston  Lake,  who  was  still  in 
London,  and  who  had  had  greater  success  than  before.  From 
him  she  knew  that  Crayford  was  in  town,  and  would  take  his 
usual  "cure"  in  August  at  Divonne-les-Bains.  Lake  had 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        317 

"begun  upon  him"  warily,  but  had  not  yet  even  hinted  at  the 
visit  to  Africa.  After  his  "cure"  Cray  ford  proposed  making  a 
motor  tour.  He  thought  nothing  of  running  all  over  Europe 
in  his  car.  Lake  was  going  presently  to  speak  of  the  perfect 
surfaces  of  the  Algerian  roads,  "the  best  way  perhaps  of 
getting  him  to  go  to  Algeria."  He  still  wanted  operas  "  badly," 
and  had  asked  after  the  Heaths  directly  he  arrived  in  London. 
Lake  had  replied  that  Claude  was  finishing  off  an  opera.  Was 
he?  Where?  Alston  had  evaded  the  question,  giving  the 
impression  that  Claude  wished  to  remain  hidden  away.  There- 
upon Crayford  had  asked  after  Charmian,  and  had  been  in- 
formed that  of  course  she  was  with  her  husband.  Turtle  doves, 
eh?  Crayford  had  dropped  the  subject,  but  had  eventually 
returned  to  it  again  in  a  casual  way.  Had  Lake  heard  the 
opera?  Some  of  it.  Did  it  seem  any  good?  Lake  had  not 
expressed  an  opinion.  He  had  shrewdly  made  rather  a  mystery 
of  the  whole  thing.  This,  as  he  expected,  had  put  Crayford 
on  the  alert.  Since  the  success  of  Jacques  Sennier  he  saw  the 
hand  of  his  rival,  "The  Metropolitan,"  everywhere,  like  the 
giant  hand  of  one  of  the  great  Trusts.  Lake's  air  of  mystery 
had  evidently  made  him  suspect  that  Claude  had  some  reason 
for  keeping  away  and  making  a  sort  of  secret  of  what  he  was 
doing.  Finally  he  had  inquired  point  blank  whether  any  one 
was  "after  young  Heath's  opera."  Lake  could  not  say  any- 
thing as  to  that.  "Why  don't  he  write  in  Europe  anyway, 
where  folk  could  get  at  him  if  they  wanted  to?"  had  been  the 
next  question.  Lake's  answer  had  rather  indicated  that  the 
composer  was  very  glad  to  have  a  good  stretch  of  ocean  between 
himself  and  any  "folk"  who  might  want  to  get  at  him. 

This  was  the  point  at  which  the  Lake  correspondence  with 
Charmian  stood  in  the  first  week  of  August.  His  last  letter 
lay  on  her  knee  one  afternoon,  as  she  sat  in  a  hidden  nook  at 
the  bottom  of  the  garden,  with  delicate  bamboos  rustling  in  a 
warm  south  wind  about  her. 

Claude  knew  nothing  of  this  exchange  of  letters,  of  all  the 
planning  and  plotting.  It  was  all  for  him.  Some  day,  when 
the  result  was  success,  he  should  be  told  everything,  unless 
by  that  time  it  was  too  late,  and  the  steps  to  success  were  all 
forgotten.  Charmian  did  nothing  to  disturb  him.  She 


318        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

wished  him  to  be  obsessed  by  the  work,  to  do  it  now  merely  for 
its  own  sake.  The  result  of  his  labors  would  probably  be  better 
if  that  were  so.  If  Crayford  did  come — and  he  must  come! 
Charmian  was  willing  it  every  day — his  coming  would  be  a 
surprise  to  Claude,  and  would  seem  to  be  a  surprise  to  Char- 
mian. She  would  get  rid  of  Claude  for  a  few  days  when  Lake 
forewarned  her  that  their  arrival  was  imminent;  would  per- 
suade him  to  take  a  little  holiday,  to  go,  perhaps,  up  into  the 
cork  woods  to  Hammam  R'rirha.  He  was  very  pale,  had  dark 
circles  beneath  his  eyes.  The  incessant  work  was  beginning  to 
tell  upon  him  severely.  Charmian  saw  that.  But  how  could 
she  beg  him  to  rest  now,  when  Jernington  had  come  out,  when 
it  was  so  vital  to  their  interests  that  the  opera  should  be  finished 
as  soon  as  possible!  Besides,  she  was  certain  that  even  if  she 
spoke  Claude  would  not  listen  to  her.  Jernington,  so  he  said, 
always  gave  him  an  impetus,  always  excited  him.  It  was  a 
keen  pleasure  to  show  a  man  of  such  deep  knowledge  what  he 
had  been  doing,  a  keener  pleasure  still  when  he  approved, 
when  he  said,  in  his  German  voice,  "That  goes!"  And  they 
had  been  trying  over  passages  with  instrumentalists  who  had 
been  "unearthed,"  as  Jernington  expressed  it,  in  Algiers. 
They  had  got  hold  of  a  horn  player,  had  found  another 
man  who  played  the  clarinet,  the  violin,  and  a  third  instru- 
ment. 

In  fact,  they  were  living  for,  and  in,  the  opera.  And  Char- 
mian, devoured  by  her  secret  ambition,  had  no  heart  to  play 
a  careful  wife's  part.  She  had  the  will  to  urge  her  man  on. 
She  had  no  will  to  hold  him  back.  Afterward  he  could  rest, 
he  should  rest — on  the  bed  of  his  laurels. 

She  smiled  now  when  she  thought  of  that. 

Presently  she  felt  that  some  one  was  approaching  her.  She 
looked  up  and  saw  Jernington  coming  down  the  path,  wiping 
his  pale  forehead  with  a  silk  handkerchief  in  which  various 
colors  seemed  fortuitously  combined. 

"Is  the  work  over?"  she  cried  out  to  him. 

He  threw  up  one  square-nailed  white  hand. 

"No.  But  for  once  he  has  got  a  passage  all  wrong.  I 
have  left  him  to  correct  it.  He  kicked  me  out,  in  fact!" 

Jernington  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed  gutturally.    His 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        319 

laugh  always  contradicted  his  eyes.  They  were  romantic, 
but  his  laugh  was  prosaic. 

He  sat  down  by  Charmian  and  put  his  hands  on  his  knees. 
One  still  grasped  the  handkerchief. 

"Dear  Mr.  Jernington,  tell  me!"  she  said.  "You  know  so 
much.  Claude  says  your  knowledge  is  extraordinary.  Isn't 
the  opera  fine?" 

Now  Jernington  was  a  specialist,  and  he  was  one  of  those 
men  who  cannot  detach  their  minds  from  the  subject  in  which 
they  specialize  in  order  to  take  a  broad  view.  His  vision 
was  extraordinarily  acute,  but  it  was  strictly  limited.  When 
Charmian  spoke  of  the  opera  he  believed  he  was  thinking  of  the 
opera  as  a  whole,  whereas  he  was  in  reality  only  thinking 
about  the  orchestration  of  it. 

"It  is  superb!"  he  replied  enthusiastically.  "Never  before 
have  I  had  a  pupil  with  such  talent  as  your  husband." 

With  a  rapid  movement  he  put  one  hand  to  the  back  of  his 
neck  and  softly  rubbed  his  little  roll  of  white  flesh. 

"He  has  an  instinct  for  orchestration  such  as  I  have  found 
in  no  one  else.  Now,  for  example — " 

He  flung  himself  into  depths  of  orchestral  knowledge, 
dragging  Charmian  with  him.  She  was  happily  engulfed. 
When  they  emerged  in  about  half  an  hour's  time  she  again 
threw  out  a  lure  for  general  praise. 

"Then  you  really  admire  the  opera  as  a  whole?  You  think 
it  undoubtedly  fine,  don't  you?" 

Jernington  wiped  his  perspiring  face,  his  forehead,  and, 
finally,  his  whole  head  and  neck,  manipulating  the  huge 
handkerchief  in  a  masterly  manner  almost  worthy  of  an 
expensive  conjurer. 

"  It  is  superb.  When  it  is  given,  when  the  world  knows  that 
the  great  Heath  studied  with  me — well,  I  shall  have  to  take 
a  studio  as  large  as  the  Albert  Hall,  there  will  be  such  a  rush 
of  pupils.  Do  you  know  that  his  employment  of  the  oboe  in 
combination  with  the  flute,  the  strings  being  divided— 

And  once  more  he  plunged  down  into  the  depths  of  orches- 
tral knowledge  taking  Charmian  with  him.  He  quoted 
Prout,  he  quoted  Vincent  d'Indy;  he  minutely  compared 
passages  in  Elgar's  second  symphony  with  passages  in  Tchai- 


320        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

kovsky's  fifth  symphony;  he  dissected  the  delicate  orchestral 
effects  in  Debussy's  Nuages  and  Fete  Nocturne,  compared  the 
modern  French  methods  in  orchestration  with  Richard  Strauss's 
gigantic,  and  sometimes  monstrous  combinations.  But  again 
and  again  he  returned  to  his  pupil,  Claude.  As  he  talked  his 
enthusiasm  mounted.  The  little  roll  of  flesh  trembled  as  he 
emphatically  moved  his  head.  His  voice  grew  harsher,  more 
German.  He  untied  and  reknotted  his  flowing  cravat,  pulled 
up  his  boots  with  elastic  sides,  thrust  his  cuffs,  which  were  not 
attached  to  his  shirt,  violently  out  of  sight  up  his  plump 
arms. 

Charmian  could  not  doubt  his  admiration  for  the  opera.  It 
was  expressed  in  a  manner  peculiar  to  Jernington  that  became 
almost  epileptic,  but  it  was  undoubtedly  sincere. 

When  he  left  her  and  went  back  to  Claude's  workroom  she 
was  glowing  with  pride  and  happiness. 

"That  funny  old  thing  knows!"  she  thought.     "He  knows!" 

Jernington  was  usually  called  an  old  thing,  although  he 
was  not  yet  forty. 

His  departure  was  due  about  the  twentieth  of  August,  but 
when  that  day  drew  near  Claude  begged  him  to  stay  on  till 
the  end  of  the  month.  Charmian  was  secretly  dismayed.  She 
had  news  from  Lake  that  his  campaign  on  Claude's  behalf  had 
every  prospect  of  success.  Crayford  was  now  at  Divonne-les- 
Bains,  but  had  invited  Lake  to  join  him  in  a  motor  tour  as  soon 
as  his  "cure" — by  no  means  a  severe  one — was  over. 

"That  tour,  Mrs.  Charmian,  as  I'm  a  living  man  with  good 
prospects,  will  end  on  the  quay  at  Marseilles,  and  start  again 
on  the  quay  at  Algiers.  Crayford  has  tried  to  bring  off  a 
fresh  deal  with  Sennier,  but  been  beaten  off  by  the  pierrot  in 
petticoats,  as  he  calls  the  great  Henriette.  She  asked  for  the 
earth,  and  all  the  planets  and  constellations  besides.  Now 
they  are  at  daggers  drawn.  That's  bully  for  us.  Take  out 
your  bottom  dollar,  and  bet  it  that  I  bring  him  over  before 
September  is  ten  days  old." 

September — yes.  But  Lake  was  impulsive.  He  might 
hurry  things,  might  arrive  with  the  impresario  sooner.  Jern- 
ington must  not  be  at  Djenan-el-Maqui  when  he  arrived. 
If  Claude  were  found  studying  with  a  sort  of  professor  Cray- 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        321 

ford  would  certainly  get  a  wrong  impression.  It  might  just 
make  the  difference  between  the  success  of  the  great  plan  and 
its  failure.  Claude  must  present  himself,  or  be  presented  by 
Lake  as  a  master,  not  as  a  pupil. 

She  must  get  rid  of  old  Jernington  as  soon  as  possible. 

But  it  now  became  alarmingly  manifest  that  old  Jernington 
was  in  no  hurry  to  go.  He  was  one  of  those  persons  who  arrive 
with  great  difficulty,  but  who  find  an  even  greater  difficulty 
in  bringing  themselves  to  the  point  of  departure.  Never 
having  been  out  of  Europe  before,  it  seemed  that  he  was  not 
unwilling  to  end  his  days  in  a  tropical  exile.  He  "felt"  the 
heat  terribly,  but  professed  to  like  it,  was  charmed  with  the 
villa  and  the  comfort  of  the  life,  and  "really  had  no  need  to 
hurry  away"  now  that  he  had  definitely  relinquished  his 
annual  holiday  at  Bury  St.  Edmunds. 

As  Claude  wished  him  to  stay  on,  and  had  no  suspicion 
that  any  plan  was  in  the  wind,  Charmian  found  herself  in  a 
difficult  position  as  the  days  went  by  and  the  end  of  August 
drew  near.  Her  imagination  revolved  about  all  sorts  of  pre- 
posterous means  for  getting  rid  of  the  poor  fellow,  whom  she 
honestly  liked,  and  to  whom  she  was  grateful  for  his  enthusias- 
tic labors.  She  thought  of  making  a  hole  in  his  mosquito  net, 
to  permit  the  entry  of  those  marauders  whom  he  dreaded; 
of  casually  mentioning  that  there  had  been  cases  suspiciously 
resembling  Asiatic  cholera  in  the  Casbah  of  Algiers;  of 
pretending  to  fall  ill  and  saying  that  Claude  must  take  her 
away  for  a  change;  even  of  getting  Alston  Lake  to  send 
a  telegram  to  Jernington  saying  that  his  presence  was  urgently 
demanded  in  his  native  Suffolk.  Had  he  a  mother?  Till 
now  Charmian  had  never  thought  of  probing  into  Jernington's 
family  affairs.  When,  driven  by  stress  of  circumstances,  she 
began  to  do  so,  she  found  that  his  mother  had  died  almost 
before  he  was  born.  Indeed,  his  relatives  seemed  to  be  as 
few  in  number  as  they  were  robust  in  constitution. 

She  dismissed  the  idea  of  the  telegram.  She  even  said 
to  herself  that  of  course  she  had  never  entertained  it.  But 
what  was  she  to  do? 

She  tried  to  be  a  little  cold  to  Jernington,  thinking  it  might 
be  possible  to  convey  to  him  subtly  the  idea  that  perhaps  his 

21 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

visit  had  lasted  long  enough,  that  his  hostess  had  other  plans 
in  which  his  presence  was  not  included. 

But  Jernington  was  conscious  of  no  subtleties  except  those 
connected  with  the  employment  of  musical  instruments. 
And  Charmian  found  it  almost  impossible  to  be  glacial  to  such 
a  simple  and  warm-hearted  creature.  His  very  boots  seemed 
to  claim  her  cordiality  with  their  unabashed  elastic  sides. 
The  way  in  which  he  pushed  his  cuffs  out  of  sight  appealed 
to  the  goodness  of  her  heart,  although  it  displeased  her  aesthetic 
sense.  She  had  to  recognize  the  fact  that  old  Jernington  was 
one  of  those  tiresome  people  you  cannot  be  unkind  to. 

Nevertheless  she  must  get  him  out  of  the  house  and  out 
of  Africa. 

If  he  stuck  to  the  plan  of  leaving  them  at  the  end  of  August 
there  would  probably  be  no  need  of  diplomacy,  or  of  forcible 
ejection;  but  it  had  become  obvious  to  Charmian  that  the 
last  thing  old  Jernington  was  capable  of  doing  was  just  that 
sticking  to  a  plan. 

"Do  you  mean  to  sail  on  the  Marechal  Bugeaud  or  the 
Ville  d'Alger?"  she  asked  him. 

"I  wonder,"  he  replied  artlessly.  "In  my  idea  Berlioz 
was  not  really  the  founder  of  modern  orchestration  as  some  have 
asserted.  Your  husband  and  I — " 

She  could  not  stop  him.  She  began  to  feel  amost  as  if  she 
hated  the  delicious  orchestral  family.  Jernington  had  a  special 
passion  for  the  oboe.  Charmian  found  herself  absurdly 
feeling  against  that  rustic  and  Arcadian  charmer  an  enmity 
such  as  she  had  scarcely  ever  experienced  against  a  human 
being.  One  night  she  spoke  unkindly,  almost  with  a  warmth 
of  malignity,  about  the  oboe.  Jernington  sprang  amorously 
to  its  defense.  She  tried  to  quarrel  with  him,  but  was  dis- 
armed by  his  fidelity  to  the  object  of  his  affections.  She  was 
too  much  a  woman  to  rail  against  fidelity. 

The  3oth  of  August  arrived.  In  the  afternoon  of  that  day 
she  received  the  following  telegram  from  Alston  Lake: 

"Crayford  and  I  start  motor  trip  to-morrow  he  thinks 
Germany  have  no  fear  all  right  Marseilles  or  I  Dutchman. — 
LAKE." 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        323 

As  she  read  this  telegram  Charmian  knew  that  the  two  men 
would  come  to  Algiers.  She  believed  in  Alston  Lake.  He 
had  an  extraordinary  faculty  for  carrying  things  through; 
and  Crayford  was  fond  of  him.  Crayford  had  been  kind, 
generous  to  the  boy,  and  loved  him  as  a  man  may  love  his 
own  good  action.  Lake,  as  he  had  said  in  private  to  Char- 
mian, could  "do  a  lot  with  dear  old  Crayford." 

He  would  certainly  bring  Crayford  to  Mustapha.  Old 
Jernington  must  go. 

The  3ist  of  August  dawned  and  began  to  fade. 

Charmian  felt  desperate.  She  resolved  to  tackle  Claude  on 
the  matter.  Old  Jernington  would  never  understand  unless 
she  said  to  him,  "Go!  For  Heaven's  sake,  go!"  And  even 
then  he  would  probably  think  that  she  was  saying  the  reverse 
of  what  she  meant,  in  an  effort  after  that  type  of  playful  humor 
which,  for  all  she  knew,  perhaps  still  prevailed  in  his  native 
Suffolk.  She  had  bent  Claude  to  her  purposes  before.  She 
must  bend  him  to  her  purpose  now. 

"Claudie,"  she  said,  "you  know  what  an  old  deax  I  think 
Jernington,  don't  you?" 

Claude  looked  up  at  her  with  rather  searching  eyes.  She 
had  come  into  his  workroom  at  sunset.  All  day  she  had  been 
considering  what  would  be  the  best  thing  to  do.  Old  Jerning- 
ton was  strolling  in  the  garden  smoking  a  very  German  pipe 
after  having  been  "at  it"  for  many  hours. 

"Jernington?" 

"Yes,  old  Jernington." 

"Of  course  he's  an  excellent  fellow.     What  about  him?" 

She  sat  down  delicately.  She  was  looking  very  calm,  and 
her  movement  was  very  quiet. 

"Well,  I'm  beginning  almost  to  hate  him!"  she  remarked 
quietly. 

"What  do  you  mean,  Charmian?" 

"If  I  tell  you  are  you  going  to  get  angry?" 

"Why  should  I  get  angry?" 

"You  are  looking  very  fierce." 

He  altered  his  expression. 

"It's  the  work,"  he  muttered.  "Whe»  one  grinds  as  I 
do  one  does  feel  fierce.  " 


324        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

"That's  why  I'm  beginning  to — well,  love  Mr.  Jernington 
a  little  less  than  I  used  to.  He's  almost  killing  you." 

"Jernington!" 

"Yes.    It's  got  to  stop." 

Her  voice  and  manner  had  quite  changed.  She  spoke  now 
with  earnest  and  very  serious  decision. 

"What?" 

"The  work,  Claude.  I've  seen  for  some  time  that  unless 
you  take  a  short  holiday  you  are  going  to  break  down." 

"Well,  but  you  have  always  encouraged  me  to  work!" 

She  noticed  a  faint  suspicion  in  his  expression  and  voice. 

"I  know.  I've  been  too  eager,  too  keen  on  the  opera.  I 
haven't  realized  what  a  strain  you  are  going  through.  But — 
it's  just  like  a  woman,  I'm  afraid! — now  I  see  another  urging 
you  on,  I  see  plainly.  It  may  be  jealousy — " 

"You  jealous  of  old  Jernington!" 

"I  believe  I  am  a  tiny  bit.  But,  apart  really  from  that, 
you  are  looking  dreadful  these  last  few  days.  When  you 
asked  Jernington  to  prolong  his  visit  I  was  horrified.  You  see, 
he's  come  to  it  all  fresh.  And  then  he's  not  creating.  That's 
the  tiring  work.  It's  all  very  well  helping  and  criticising." 

"That's  very  true,"  Claude  said. 

He  sighed  heavily.  She  had  told  him  that  he  was  very  tired, 
and  he  felt  that  he  was  very  tired. 

"It  is  a  great  strain,"  he  added. 

"It  has  got  to  stop,  Claude." 

There  was  a  little  silence.    Then  she  said: 

"These  extra  months  have  made  a  great  difference,  haven't 
they?" 

"Enormous." 

"You've  got  on  very  far?" 

"Farther  than  I  had  thought  would  be  possible." 

Her  heart  bounded.    But  she  only  said: 

"There's  a  boat  to  Marseilles  the  day  after  to-morrow. 
Old  Jernington  is  going  by  it." 

"Oh,  but  Charmian,  we  can't  pack  the  dear  old  fellow — 

"The  dear  old  fellow  is  going  by  that  boat,  Claudie." 

"But  what  a  tyrant  you  are!" 

"I've  been   selfish.     My  keenness   about  your  work  has 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        325 

blinded  me.  Jernington  has  made  me  see.  We've  been  two 
slave-drivers.  It  can't  go  on.  If  he  could  stay  and  be  different 
— but  he  can't.  He's  a  marvel  of  learning,  but  he  has  only 
one  subject — orchestration.  You've  got  to  forget  that  for  a 
little.  So  Jernington  must  go.  Dear  old  boy!  When  I  see 
your  pale  cheeks  and  your  burning  eyes  I — I — " 

Tears  came  into  her  eyes.  From  beneath  the  trickster  the 
woman  arose.  Her  own  words  touched  her  suddenly,  made 
her  understand  how  Claude  had  sacrificed  himself  to  his  work, 
and  so  to  her  ambition.  She  got  up  and  turned  away. 

"Old  Jernington  shall  go  by  the  Marechal  Bugeaud,"  she 
said,  in  a  voice  that  slightly  shook. 

And  by  the  Marechal  Bugeaud,  old  Jernington  did  go. 

So  ingeniously  did  Charmian  manage  things  that  he  believed 
he  went  of  his  own  accord,  indeed  that  it  had  been  his  "  idea  " 
to  go.  She  told  Claude  to  leave  it  to  her  and  not  to  say  one 
word.  Then  she  went  to  Jernington,  and  began  to  talk  of 
his  extraordinary  influence  over  her  husband.  He  soon 
pulled  at  his  boots,  thrust  his  cuffs  up  his  arms,  and  showed 
other  unmistakable  symptoms  of  gratification. 

"You  can  do  anything  with  him,"  she  said  presently.  "I 
wish  I  could." 

Jernington  protested  with  guttural  exclamations. 

"He's  killing  himself,"  she  resumed.  "And  I  have  to  sit 
by  and  see  it,  and  say  nothing." 

"Killing  himself!" 

Jernington,  who  believed  in  women,  was  shocked. 

"With  overwork.  He's  on  the  verge  of  a  complete  break- 
down. And  it's  you,  Mr.  Jernington,  it's  all  you!" 

Jernington  was  more  than  shocked.  His  gratification  had 
vanished.  A  piteous,  almost  a  guilty  expression,  came  into 
his  large  fair  face. 

"Ach!"  he  exclaimed.    "What  have  I  done?" 

"  Oh,  it's  not  your  fault.  But  Claude  almost  worships  you. 
He  thinks  there  is  no  one  like  you.  He's  afraid  to  lose  a 
moment  of  time  while  you  are  with  him.  Your  learning,  your 
enthusiasm  excite  him  till  he's  beside  himself.  He  can't  rest 
with  such  a  worker  as  you  in  the  house,  and  no  wonder.  You 
are  an  inspiration  to  him.  Who  could  rest  with  such  an  influ- 


326        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

ence  near?  What  are  we  to  do?  Unless  he  has  a  complete 
holiday  he  is  going  to  break  completely  down.  Do  watch 
him  to-day!  Notice!  See  for  yourself! 

Jernington,  much  impressed — for  Gharmian's  despair  had 
been  very  definite  indeed,  "oleographic  in  type,"  as  she 
acknowledged  to  herself — did  notice,  did  see  for  himself,  and 
inquired  innocently  of  Charmian  what  was  to  be  done. 

"I  leave  that  to  you,"  she  answered,  fixing  her  eyes  almost 
hypnotically  upon  him. 

Secretly  she  was  willing  him  to  go.  She  was  saying  in 
her  mind:  "Go!  Go!  Go!"  was  striving  to  "suggestion" 
him. 

"Perhaps — "  he  paused,  and  pulled  his  cuffs  down  over  his 
large,  pale  hands. 

"Yes?" 

"Perhaps  I  had  better  take  him  away  for  a  little  holiday." 

She  could  have  slapped  him.     But  she  only  said  eagerly: 

"To  England,  you  mean!  Why  not?  There's  a  boat 
going  the  day  after  to-morrow  at  noon,  the  Marechal  Bugeaud. 
Don't  say  a  word  to  Claude.  But  take  your  passage  on  her 
and  leave  the  rest  to  me.  I  know  how  to  manage  Claude. 
And  if  I  get  a  little  help  from  you!" 

Old  Jernington  took  his  passage  on  the  Marechal  Bugeaud 
and  left  the  rest  to  Charmian,  with  this  result.  Late  the  next 
night,  when  they  were  all  going  to  bed,  she  whispered  to  him, 
"I've  put  a  note  in  your  room.  Don't  say  a  word  to  him!" 
She  touched  her  lips.  Much  intrigued  by  all  this  feminine 
diplomacy  Jernington  went  to  his  room,  and  found  the  follow- 
ing note  under  a  candlestick.  (Charmian  had  a  sense  of  the 
dramatic.) 

"  DEAR  MR.  JERNINGTON, — Claude  won't  go.  It's  no  use  for 
me  to  say  anything.  He  is  in  a  highly  nervous  state  brought 
on  by  this  overwork.  I  see  the  only  thing  is  to  let  him  have  his 
own  way  in  everything.  Don't  even  mention  that  we  had 
thought  of  this  holiday  in  England.  The  least  thing  excites 
him.  And  as  he  won't  go,  what  is  the  use  of  speaking  of  it? 
If  I  can  get  him  to  join  you  later  well  and  good.  For  the 
moment  we  can  only  give  in  and  be  discreet.  You  have  been 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        327 

such  a  dear  to  us  both.    The  house  will  seem  quite  different 
without  you.     Not  a  word  to  Claude.    Burn  this! 

"C.  H." 

And  old  Jernington  burnt  it  in  the  flame  of  the  candle,  and 
went  away  alone  on  the  Marechal  Bugeaud  the  next  morning, 
with  apologies  to  Claude. 

The  house  did  seem  to  Charmian  quite  different  without 
him. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

TWO  days  later,  on  the  4th  of  September,  Charmian  had 
got  rid  of  Claude  as  well  as  of  old  Jernington,  and,  in  a 
condition  of  expectation  that  was  tinged  agreeably  with 
triumph,  was  awaiting  the  arrival  of  important  visitors.     She 
had  received  a  telegram  from  Lake: 

"Have  got  him  into  the  Chateaux  country  going  on  to 
Orange  hope  on  hope  ever — ALSTON." 

And  she  knew  that  the  fateful  motor  would  inevitably 
find  its  way  to  the  quay  at  Marseilles. 

She  had  had  no  difficulty  in  persuading  Claude  to  go. 
When  Jernington  had  departed  Claude  felt  as  if  a  strong  prop 
had  suddenly  been  knocked  from  under  him,  as  if  he  might 
collapse.  He  could  not  work.  Yet  he  felt  as  if  in  the  little 
house  which  had  seen  his  work  he  could  not  rest. 

"Go  away,"  Charmian  said  to  him.  "Take  a  couple  of 
weeks'  complete  holiday." 

"Where  shall  we  go?" 

"But  I  am  not  going." 

He  looked  surprised.  But  she  noticed  that  he  did  not  look 
displeased.  Nevertheless,  thinking  of  the  future  and  remem- 
bering Alston  Lake's  advice,  she  continued: 

"You  need  a  complete  change  of  people  as  well  as  of  place. 
Is  there  anyone  left  in  Algiers?" 

"If  you  don't  come,"  he  interrupted  her  quickly,  "I'd  much 
rather  go  quite  alone.  It  will  rest  me  much  more." 

She  saw  by  the  look  in  his  eyes  that  this  sudden  prospect 
of  loneliness  appealed  to  him  strongly.  He  moved  his  shoul- 
ders, stretched  out  his  arms. 

"Yes,  it  will  do  me  good.  You  are  right,  Charmian.  It 
is  sweet  of  you  to  think  for  me  as  you  do." 

And  he  bent  down  and  kissed  her. 

Then  he  hurried  to  his  room,  packed  a  very  small  trunk, 
and  took  the  first  train,  as  she  had  suggested,  to  Hammam 
R'rirha. 

328 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        329 

"If  you  move  from  there  mind  you  let  me  know  your 
address,"  she  said,  as  he  was  starting. 

"Of  course." 

"I  want  always  to  know  just  where  you  are." 

"Of  course  I  shall  let  you  know.  But  I  think  I  shall  stay 
quietly  at  Hammam  R'rirha." 

Charmian  had  been  alone  for  five  days  when  another 
telegram  came: 

"Starting  to-morrow  for  Algiers  by  the  Timgad  Hurrah — 
ALSTON." 

She  read  that  telegram  again  and  again.  She  even  read  it 
aloud.  Then  she  hurried  to  her  room  to  get  her  copy  of  the 
libretto.  Two  days  and  they  would  be  here!  Her  heart 
danced,  sang.  Everything  was  going  well,  more  than  well. 
The  omens  were  good.  She  saw  in  them  a  tendency.  Success 
was  in  the  air.  She  did  not  doubt,  she  would  not  doubt,  that 
Crayford's  coming  meant  his  eventual  acceptance  of  the  opera. 
The  combination  of  Alston  and  herself  was  a  strong  one. 
They  knew  their  own  minds;  they  were  both  enthusiasts;  they 
both  had  strong  wills.  Crayford  was  devoted  to  his  protege, 
and  he  admired  her.  She  had  seen  admiration  in  his  eyes  the 
first  time  they  had  looked  at  her.  Madame  Sennier  had  surely 
never  worked  for  her  husband  more  strenuously  and  more 
effectively  than  she,  Charmian,  had  worked  for  Claude;  and 
she  would  work  more  strenuously,  more  effectively,  during  the 
next  few  days.  The  libretto!  She  snatched  it  up  and  sat 
down  once  more  to  study  it.  But  she  could  not  sit  still,  and 
she  took  it  down  with  her  into  the  garden.  There  she  paced 
up  and  down,  reading  it  aloud,  reciting  the  strongest  passages 
in  it  without  looking  at  the  words.  She  nearly  knew  the  whole 
of  it  by  heart. 

When  the  day  came  on  which  the  Timgad  was  due  she  was 
in  a  fever  of  excitement.  She  went  about  the  little  house 
re-arranging  the  furniture,  putting  flowers  in  all  the  vases.  Of 
course  Mr.  Crayford  and  Alston  would  stay  at  a  hotel.  But 
no  doubt  they  would  spend  a  good  deal  of  time  at  the  villa. 
She  would  insist  on  their  dining  with  her  that  night. 


330       THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

"Jeanne!    Jeanne!" 

She  hurried  toward  the  kitchen.  It  occurred  to  her  that 
she  was  not  supposed  to  know  that  the  two  men  were  coming. 
Oh,  but  of  course,  when  he  found  them  there,  Claude  would 
understand  that  naturally  Alston  had  telegraphed  from  Mar- 
seilles. So  she  took  "La  Grande  Jeanne"  into  her  confidence 
without  a  scruple.  They  must  have  a  perfect  little  dinner,  a 
dinner  for  three  such  as  had  never  yet  been  prepared  in 
Mustapha! 

She  and  Jeanne  were  together  for  more  than  an  hour. 
Afterward  she  went  out  to  watch  for  the  steamer  from  a  point 
of  vantage  on  the  Boulevard  Bleu.  Just  after  one  o'clock  she 
saw  it  gliding  toward  the  harbor  over  the  glassy  sea.  Then 
she  went  slowly  home  in  the  glaring  heat,  rested,  put  on  a  white 
gown,  very  simple  but  quite  charming,  and  a  large  white 
hat,  and  went  out  into  the  Arab  court  with  a  book  to  await 
their  arrival. 

It  was  half-past  four  when  a  sound  struck  on  her  ears,  a 
loud  and  trembling  chord,  a  buzz,  the  rattle  of  a  "cut-out." 
The  blessed  noises  drew  near.  They  were  certainly  in  the 
little  by-road  which  led  to  the  house.  They  ceased.  She 
did  not  move,  but  sat  where  she  was  with  a  fast-beating  heart. 

"Well,  this  is  a  cute  little  snuggery  and  no  mistake!" 

It  was  Crayford's  voice  in  the  court  of  the  bougainvillea. 

She  bent  her  head  and  pored  over  her  book.  In  a  moment 
Alston  Lake's  voice  said,  in  French: 

"In  the  garden!    No,  don't  call  her,  Bibi,  we  will  find  her!" 

"Look  well  on  the  stage  that  boy!"  said  Crayford's  voice. 
"No  mistake  at  all  about  its  being  picturesque  over  here." 

Then  the  two  men  came  in  sight  in  the  sunshine.  In- 
stantly Alston  said,  as  he  took  off  his  Panama  hat: 

"You  got  my  wire  from  Marseilles,  Mrs.  Charmian?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  was  expecting  you!  But  I  didn't  know  when. 
Mr.  Crayford,  how  kind  of  you  to  come  over  here  in  September! 
No  one  ever  does." 

She  had  got  up  rather  languidly  and  was  holding  out  her 
hand. 

"  Guess  it's  the  proper  time  to  come,"  said  Crayford,  squeez- 
ing her  hand  with  his  dried-up  palm.  "  See  a  bit  of  the  real 


thing!  I  don't  believe  in  tourist  seasons  at  all.  Tourists 
always  choose  the  wrong  time,  seems  to  me." 

By  the  look  in  his  eyes  as  he  glanced  around  him  Chairman 
saw  that  he  was  under  the  spell  of  D  jenan-el-Maqui. 

"You  must  have  tea,  iced  drinks,  whatever  you  like,"  she 
said.  "  I'm  all  alone — as  you  see." 

"What's  that?"  said  Crayford. 

"My  husband  is  away." 

Crayford' s  lips  pursed  themselves.  For  a  moment  he 
looked  like  a  man  who  finds  he  has  been  "had."  In  that 
moment  Charmian  knew  that  his  real  reason  in  "running 
over"  to  North  Africa  had  certainly  been  the  opera.  She 
did  not  suppose  he  had  acknowledged  this  to  Lake,  or  ever 
would  acknowledge  it  to  anyone.  But  she  was  quite  certain 
of  it. 

"Gone  to  England?"  asked  Crayford,  carelessly. 

"Oh,  no.  He's  been  working  too  hard,  and  run  away  by 
himself  for  a  little  holiday  to  a  place  near  here,  Hammam 
R'rirha.  He'll  be  sorry  to  miss  you.  I  know  how  busy  you 
always  are,  so  I  suppose  you'll  only  stay  a  day  or  two." 

Crayford's  keen  eyes  suddenly  fastened  upon  her. 

"Yes,  I  haven't  too  much  time,"  he  remarked  drily. 

They  all  sat  down,  and  again  Crayford  looked  around, 
stretching  out  his  short  and  muscular  legs. 

"Cute,  and  no  mistake!"  he  observed,  with  a  sigh,  as  he 
pulled  at  the  tiny  beard.  "Think  of  living  here  now!  Pity 
I'm  not  a  composer,  eh,  Alston?" 

He  ended  with  a  laugh. 

"And  what's  your  husband  been  up  to,  Mrs.  Heath?"  he 
continued,  settling  himself  more  comfortably  in  his  big  chair, 
and  pushing  his  white  Homburg  hat  backward  to  leave  his 
brown  forehead  bare  to  a  tiny  breeze  which  spoke  softly,  very 
gently,  of  the  sea.  "  You've  been  over  here  for  a  big  bunch  of 
Sundays,  Alston  tells  me,  week-days  too." 

"Oh — "     She  seemed  to  be  hesitating. 

Alston's  boyish  eyes  twinkled  with  appreciation. 

"Well,  we  came  here — we  wanted  to  be  quiet." 

"You've  got  out  of  sight  of  Broadway,  that's  certain." 

Tea  and  iced  drinks  were  brought  out.    They  talked  of 


332       THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

casual  matters.  The  softness  of  late  afternoon,  warm,  scented, 
exotic,  dreamed  in  the  radiant  air.  And  Crayford  said: 

"It's  cute!     It's  cute!" 

He  had  removed  his  hat  now  and  almost  lay  back  in  his 
chair.  Presently  he  said: 

"Seems  to  me  years  since  I've  rested  like  this,  Alston!" 

"I  believe  it  is  many  years,"  said  Lake,  with  a  little  satisfied 
laugh.  "I've  never  seen  you  do  it  before." 

"'Cepting  the  cure.    And  that  don't  amount  to  anything." 

"Stay  and  dine,  won't  you?"  said  Charmian.  "If  you're 
not  bored." 

"Bored!"  said  Crayford. 

"  We'll  dine  just  as  we  are.  I'll  go  in  and  see  the  cook  about 
it." 

"Very  good  of  you  I'm  sure,"  said  Crayford.  "But  I 
don't  want  to  put  you  out." 

"Where  are  you  staying?" 

"The  Excelsior,"  said  Lake.- 

"Right  down  in  the  town.  You  must  stay.  It  is  cooler 
here." 

She  got  up  and  went  slowly  into  the  house. 

"Stunning  figure  she's  got  and  no  mistake!"  observed 
Crayford,  following  her  with  his  eyes.  "But  I  say,  Alston, 
what  about  this  fellow  Heath?  Now  I'm  over  here  I  ought 
to  have  a  look  at  what  he's  up  to.  She  seemed  to  want  to 
avoid  the  subject,  I  thought.  D'you  think  he's  writing  on 
commission?  Or  perhaps  someone's  seen  the  music.  The 
Metropolitan  crowd — " 

They  fell  into  a  long  discussion  on  opera  prospects,  during 
which  Alston  Lake  succeeded  in  giving  Crayford  an  impression 
that  there  might  be  some  secret  in  connection  with  Claude 
Heath's  opera.  This  set  the  impresario  bristling.  He  was 
like  a  terrier  at  the  opening  of  a  rat-hole. 

Charmian's  little  dinner  that  night  was  perfect.  Crayford 
fell  into  a  seraphic  mood.  Beneath  his  hard  enterprise,  his 
fierce  energies,  his  armor  of  business  equipment,  there  was  a 
strain  of  romance  of  which  he  was  half-ashamed,  and  which  he 
scarcely  understood  or  was  at  ease  with.  That  night  it  came 
rather  near  to  the  surface  of  him.  As  he  stepped  out  into  the 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        333 

court  to  take  coffee,  with  an  excellent  Havana  in  his  mouth, 
as  he  saw  the  deep  and  limpid  sky  glittering  with  strong,  almost 
fierce  stars,  and  farther  fainter  stars,  he  heaved  a  long  sigh. 

" Bully!"  he  breathed.     "  Bully,  and  no  mistake!" 

Exactly  how  it  all  came  about  Charmian  did  not  remember 
afterward;  Alston,  she  thought,  must  have  prepared  the  way 
with  masterly  ingenuity.  Or  perhaps  she — no,  she  was  not 
conscious  of  having  brought  it  about  deliberately.  The  fact 
was  this.  At  ten  o'clock  that  night,  sitting  with  a  light  behind 
her,  Charmian  began  to  read  the  libretto  of  the  opera  to  the 
two  men  who  were  smoking  near  the  fountain. 

It  had  seemed  inevitable.  The  hour  was  propitious.  They 
were  all  "  worked  up."  The  night,  perhaps,  played  upon  them 
after  "La  Grande  Jeanne"  had  done  her  part.  Crayford  was 
obviously  in  his  softest,  most  receptive  mood.  Alston  was  ex- 
pansive, was  in  a  gloriously  hopeful  condition.  The  opera 
was  mentioned  again.  By  whom?  Surely  by  the  hour  or 
the  night !  It  had  to  be  mentioned,  and  inevitably  was.  Cray- 
ford  was  sympathetic,  spoke  almost  with  emotion — a  liqueur- 
glass  of  excellent  old  brandy  in  his  hand — of  the  young  talented 
ones  who  must  bear  the  banner  of  art  bravely  before  the  coming 
generations. 

"I  love  the  young!"  he  said.  "It  is  my  proudest  boast 
to  seek  out  and  bring  forward  the  young.  Aren't  it, 
Alston?" 

Influenced  perhaps  by  the  satiny  texture  of  the  old  brandy, 
in  combination  with  the  scented  and  jewelled  night,  he  spoke 
as  if  he  existed  only  for  the  benefit  of  the  young,  never  thought 
about  money-making,  or  business  propositions.  Charmian 
was  touched.  Alston  also  seemed  moved.  Claude  was  young. 
Crayford  spoke  of  him,  of  his  talent.  Charmian  was  no  longer 
evasive,  though  she  honestly  meant  to  be,  thinking  evasiveness 
was  "  the  best  way  with  Mr.  Crayford."  How  could  she,  burn- 
ing with  secret  eagerness,  be  evasive  after  a  perfect  dinner, 
when  she  saw  the  guest  on  whom  all  her  hopes  for  the  future 
were  centered  giving  himself  up  almost  greedily  to  the  soft 
emotion  which  only  comes  on  a  night  of  nights? 

The  libretto  was  touched  upon.  Alston  surely  begged  her 
to  read  it.  Or  did  she  offer  to  do  so,  induced  and  deliciously 


334        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

betrayed  into  the  definite  by  Alston?  She  and  he  were  sup- 
posed to  be  playing  into  each  other's  hands.  But,  in  that 
matter  of  the  libretto,  Charmian  never  was  able  to  believe  that 
they  did  so.  The  whole  thing  seemed  somehow  to  "come 
about  of  itself." 

Sitting  with  her  feet  on  a  stool,  which  she  very  soon  got  rid 
of,  Charmian  began  to  read,  while  Crayford  luxuriously  struck 
a  match  and  applied  to  it  another  cigar.  At  that  moment 
he  was  enjoying  himself,  as  only  an  incessantly  and  almost 
feverishly  active  man  is  able  to  in  a  rare  interval  of  perfect 
repose,  when  life  and  nature  say  to  him  "  Rest!  We  have  pre- 
pared this  dim  hour  of  stars,  scents,  silence,  warmth,  wonder 
for  you!"  He  was  glad  not  to  talk,  glad  to  hear  the  sound  of 
a  woman's  agreeable  voice. 

Just  at  first,  as  Charmian  read,  his  attention  was  inclined 
to  wander.  The  night  was  so  vast,  so  starry  and  still,  that — 
as  he  afterward  said  to  himself — "it  took  every  bit  of  ginger 
out  of  me."  But  Charmian  had  not  studied  with  Madame 
Thenant  for  nothing.  This  was  an  almost  supreme  moment 
in  her  life,  and  she  knew  it.  She  might  never  have  another 
opportunity  of  influencing  fate  so  strongly  on  Claude's  behalf. 
Madame  Sennier's  white  face,  set  in  the  frame  of  an  opera-box, 
rose  up  before  her.  She  took  her  feet  off  the  stool — she  was 
no  odalisque  to  be  pampered  with  footstools  and  cushions — and 
she  let  herself  go. 

Very  late  in  the  night  Crayford's  voice  said: 
"That's  the  best  libretto  since  Carmen,  and  I  know  some- 
thing about  libretti." 

Charmian  had  her  reward.    He  added,  after  a  minute: 
"Your  reading,  Mrs.  Heath,  was  bully,  simply  bully!" 
Charmian  was  silent.    Her  eyes  were  full  of  tears.     At 
that  moment  she  was  incapable  of   speech.    Alston  Lake 
cleared  his  throat. 

"Say,"  began  Crayford,  after  a  prolonged  pause,  during 
which  he  seemed  to  be  thinking  profoundly,  pulling  incessantly 
at  his  beard,  and  yielding  to  a  strong  attack  of  the  tic  which 
sometimes  afflicted  him — "say,  can't  you  get  that  husband  of 
yours  to  come  right  back  from  wherever  he  is?" 
With  an  effort,  Charmian  regained  self-control. 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        335 

"Oh,  yes,  I  could,  of  course.  But— but  I  think  he  needs 
the  holiday  he  is  taking  badly." 

"Been  working  hard  has  he,  sweating  over  the  music?" 

"Yes." 

"Young  'uns  must  sweat  if  they're  to  get  there.  That's 
all  right.  Aren't  it,  Alston?" 

"Rather!" 

"Can't  you  get  him  back?"  continued  Crayford. 

The  softness,  the  almost  luxurious  abandon  of  look  and 
manner  was  dropping  away  from  him.  The  man  who  has 
"interests,"  and  who  seldom  forgets  them  for  more  than  a  very 
few  minutes,  began  to  reappear. 

"Well,  I  might.     But— why?" 

"Don't  he  want  to  see  his  chum  Alston?" 

"Certainly;  he  always  likes  to  see  Mr.  Lake." 

"Well  then?" 

"  The  only  thing  is  he  needs  complete  rest." 

"And  so  do  I,  but  d'you  think  I'm  going  to  take  it?  Not 
I!  It's  the  resters  get  left.  You  might  telegraph  that  to 
your  husband,  and  say  it  comes  straight  from  me." 

He  got  up  from  his  chair,  and  threw  away  the  stump  of  the 
fourth  cigar  he  had  enjoyed  that  night. 

"  We've  no  room  for  resters  in  New  York  City." 

"I'm  sure  you  haven't.  But  my  husband  doesn't  happen 
to  belong  to  New  York  City." 

As  they  were  leaving  Djenan-el-Maqui,  after  Mr.  Crayford 
had  had  a  long  drink,  and  while  he  was  speaking  to  his  chauf- 
feur, who  had  the  bonnet  of  the  car  up,  Alston  Lake  whispered 
to  Charmian: 

"  Don't  wire  to  old  Claude.  Keep  it  up.  You  are  masterly, 
quite  masterly.  Hulloa!  anything  wrong  with  the  car?" 

When  they  buzzed  away  Charmian  stood  for  a  moment 
in  the  drive  till  silence  fell.  She  was  tired,  but  how  happily 
tired! 

And  to  think  that  Claude  knew  nothing,  nothing  of  it  all! 
Some  day  she  would  have  to  tell  him  how  hard  she  had  worked 
for  him!  She  opened  her  lips  and  drew  into  her  lungs  the 
warm  air  of  the  night.  She  was  not  a  "rester."  She  would 
not  surely  "get  left." 


336        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

Pierre  yawned  rather  loudly  behind  her. 

"Oh,  Pierre!"  she  said,  turning  quickly,  startled.  "It 
is  terribly  late.  Stay  in  bed  to-morrow.  Don't  get  up  early. 
Bonne  nuit." 

"Bonne  nuit,  madame." 

On  the  following  day  she  received  a  note  from  Alston. 

"DEAR  MRS.  CHARMIAN, — You  are  a  wonder.  No  one  on 
earth  could  have  managed  him  better.  You  might  have  known 
him  from  the  cradle — yours,  of  course,  not  his!  I'm  taking 
him  around  to-day.  He  wants  to  go  to  Djenan-el-Maqui, 
I  can  see  that.  But  I'm  keeping  him  off  it.  Lie  low  and 
mum's  the  word  as  to  Claude. — Your  fellow  conspirator, 

"ALSTON." 

It  was  difficult  to  "lie  low."  But  she  obeyed  and  spent 
the  long  day  alone.  No  one  came  to  see  her.  Toward  evening 
she  felt  deserted,  presently  even  strangely  depressed.  As  she 
dined,  as  she  sat  out  afterward  in  the  court  with  Caroline  repos- 
ing on  her  skirt  in  a  curved  attitude  of  supreme  contentment, 
she  recalled  the  excitement  and  emotion  of  the  preceding 
night.  She  had  read  well.  She  had  done  her  part  for  Claude. 
But  if  all  her  work  had  been  useless?  If  all  the  ingenuity  of 
herself  and  Alston  should  be  of  no  avail?  If  the  opera  should 
never  be  produced,  or  should  be  produced  and  fail?  Perhaps 
for  the  first  time  she  strongly  and  deliberately  imagined  that 
catastrophe.  For  so  long  now  had  the  opera  been  the  thing 
that  ruled  in  her  life  with  Claude,  for  so  long  had  everything 
centered  round  it,  been  subservient  to  it,  that  Charmian  could 
scarcely  conceive  of  life  without  it.  She  would  be  quite  alone 
with  Claude.  Now  they  were  a  menage  d  trois.  She  recalled 
the  beginnings  of  her  married  life.  How  fussy,  how  anxious, 
how  unstable  they  had  been !  Now  the  current  flowed  strongly, 
steadily,  evenly.  The  river  seemed  to  have  a  soul,  to  know 
whither  it  was  flowing. 

Surely  so  much  thought,  care,  labor  and  love  could  not  be 
bestowed  on  a  thing  in  vain;  surely  the  opera,  child  of  so  many 
hopes,  bearer  of  such  a  load  of  ambition,  could  not  "go 
down"?  She  tried  to  regain  her  strength  of  anticipation. 
But  all  the  evening  she  felt  depressed.  If  only  Alston  would 


come  in  for  five  minutes!  Perhaps  he  would.  She  looked  at 
the  tiny  watch  which  hung  by  her  side  at  the  end  of  a  thin  gold 
chain.  The  hands  pointed  to  half-past  nine.  He  might  come 
yet.  She  listened.  The  night,  one  of  a  long  succession  of 
marvellous  African  nights,  was  perfectly  still.  The  servants 
within  the  villa  made  no  sound.  Caroline  heaved  a  faint  sigh 
and  stirred,  turning  to  push  her  long  nose  into  a  tempting  fold 
of  Charmian's  skirt.  But,  midway  in  her  movement  she 
paused,  lifted  her  head,  stared  at  the  darkness  with  her  small 
yellow  eyes,  and  uttered  a  muffled  bark  which  was  like  an 
inquiry.  Her  nose  was  twitching. 

"What  is  it,  Caroline?"  said  Charmian. 

She  lifted  the  dog  on  to  her  knees. 

"What  is  it?" 

Caroline  barked  faintly  again. 

"Someone  is  coming,"  thought  Charmian.  "Alston  is 
coming." 

Almost  directly  she  heard  the  sound  of  wheels,  and  Caroline 
jumping  down  with  her  lopetty  movement,  delivered  herself  up 
to  a  succession  of  calm  barks.  She  was  a  gentle  individual, 
and  never  showed  any  great  animation,  even  in  such  a  crisis 
as  this.  The  sound  of  wheels  ceased,  and  in  a  moment  a  voice 
called: 

' '  Charmian !    Where  are  y ou  ?  " 

"Claude!" 

She  felt  that  her  face  grew  hot,  though  she  was  alone,  and 
she  had  spoken  the  name  to  herself,  for  herself. 

"I'm  out  here  on  the  terrace!" 

She  felt  astonished,  guilty.  She  had  thought  that  he 
would  only  come  when  she  summoned  him,  perhaps  to-morrow, 
that  he  would  learn  by  telegram  of  the  arrival  of  Crayford 
and  Alston.  Now  she  would  have  to  tell  him. 

He  came  out  into  the  court,  looking  very  tall  in  the  night. 

"Are  you  surprised?" 

He  kissed  her. 

"Very!     Very  surprised!" 

"I  thought  I  had  had  enough  holiday,  that  I  would  get 
back.  I  only  decided  to-day,  quite  suddenly. 

"Then  didn't  you  enjoy  your  holiday?" 

22 


338        TLHE  kWAY  OF  AMBITION 

"I  thought  I  was  going  to.  I  tried  to.  I  even  pretended 
to  myself  that  I  was  enjoying  it  very  much.  But  it  was  all 
subterfuge,  I  suppose,  for  to-day  I  found  I  must  come  back. 
The  fact  is  I  can't  keep  away  from  the  opera." 

Charmian  was  conscious  of  a  sharp  pang.  It  felt  like  a 
pang  of  jealousy. 

"Have  you  had  any  dinner?"  she  asked,  in  a  rather  con- 
strained voice. 

"Yes.     I  dined  at  Gruber's." 

She  wondered  why,  but  she  did  not  say  so. 

"I  nearly  stayed  the  night  in  town.  I  felt — it  seemed  so 
absurd  my  rushing  back  like  this." 

He  ended  with  a  little  laugh. 

"Who  do  you  think  is  here?"  she  said. 

"Here?" 

He  glanced  round. 

"I  mean  in  Algiers." 

He  looked  at  her  with  searching  eyes. 

"Someone  we  know  well?" 

"Two  people." 

"Tell  me!" 

"No— guess!" 

"Women?    Men?" 

"Men." 

"Sennier?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Max  Elliot?" 

"  No.    One  is— Alston  Lake." 

"Alston?    But  why  isn't  he  up  here,  then?" 

"He  has  brought  someone  with  him." 

"Whom?" 

"Jacob  Crayford." 

"Crayford  here?    What  has  he  come  here  for?" 

"He's  taking  a  holiday  motoring." 

"But  to  come  to  Algiers  in  summer!" 

"He  goes  everywhere,  and  can't  choose  his  season.  He's 
far  too  busy." 

"To  be  sure.    Has  he  been  to  see  you?" 

"Yes;  he  dined  here  yesterday  and  stayed  tiD  past  mid- 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        339 

night.  He  wants  to  see  you.  I  meant  to  telegraph  to  you 
almost  directly." 

"Wants  to  see  me?" 

"Yes.  Claude,  last  night  I  read  the  libretto  of  the  opera 
to  him  and  Alston." 

He  was  silent.  It  was  dark  in  the  court.  She  could  not 
see  his  face  clearly  enough  to  know  whether  he  was  pleased  or 
displeased. 

"Do  you  mind?" 

Why  should  I?" 

"I  think  you  sound  as  if  you  minded." 

"Well?    What  did  Crayford  think  of  it?" 

"He  said,  'It's  the  best  libretto  since  Carmen.'" 

"It  is  a  good  libretto." 

"He  was  enthusiastic.  Claude" — she  put  her  hand  on  his 
arm — "he  wants  to  hear  your  music." 

"Has  he  said  so?" 

"Not  exactly;  not  in  so  many  words;  but  he  seemed  very 
much  put  out  when  he  found  you  weren't  here.  And,  after 
he  had  heard  the  libretto,  he  suggested  my  telegraphing  to 
you  to  come  straight  back." 

"Funny  I  should  have  come  without  your  telegraphing." 

"It  almost  seems — "    She  paused. 

"What?" 

"As  if  you  had  been  led  to  come  back  of  your  own  accord, 
as  if  you  had  felt  you  ought  to  be  here." 

"Are  you  glad?"  he  said. 

"Yes,  now." 

"Did  you  mean — " 

"Claude,"  she  said,  taking  a  resolution,  "I  don't  think  it 
would  be  wise  for  us  to  seem  too  eager  about  the  opera  with 
Mr.  Crayford." 

"But  I  have  never  even  thought — 

"No,  no.  But  now  he's  here,  and  thinks  so  much  of  the 
libretto,  and  wants  to  see  you,  it  would  be  absurd  of  us  to 
pretend  that  he  could  not  be  of  great  use  to  us.  I  mean,  to 
pretend  to  ourselves.  Of  course  if  he  would  take  it  it  would  be 
too  splendid." 

"He  never  will." 


340        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

"Why  not?    Covent  Garden  took  Sennier's  opera." 

"I'm  not  a  Sennier  unfortunately." 

"What  a  pity  it  is  you  have  not  more  belief  in  yourself!" 
she  exclaimed,  almost  angrily. 

She  felt  at  that  moment  as  if  his  lack  of  self-confidence 
might  ruin  their  prospects. 

"O  Claude,"  she  continued  in  the  same  almost  angry  voice, 
"  do  pluck  up  a  little  belief  in  your  own  talent,  otherwise  how 
can—" 

She  pulled  herself  up  sharply. 

"I  can't  help  being  angry,"  she  continued.  "I  believe  in 
you  so  much,  and  then  you  speak  like  this." 

Suddenly  she  burst  into  tears.  Her  depression  culminated 
in  this  breakdown,  which  surprised  her  as  much  as  it  astonished 
Claude. 

"My  nerves  have  been  on  edge  all  day,"  she  said,  or,  rather, 
sobbed.  "I  don't  know  why." 

But  even  as  she  spoke  she  did  know  why.  The  strain  of 
secret  ambition  was  beginning  to  tell  upon  her.  She  was 
perpetually  hiding  something,  was  perpetually  waiting,  desir- 
ing, thinking,  "How  much  longer?"  And  she  had  not  Susan 
Fleet's  wonderful  serenity.  And  then  she  could  not  forget 
Claude's  remark,  "I  can't  keep  away  from  the  opera."  It 
ought  to  have  pleased  her,  perhaps,  but  it  had  wounded  her. 

"I'm  a  fool!"  she  said,  wiping  her  eyes.  "I'm  strung  up; 
not  myself." 

Claude  put  his  arm  round  her  gently. 

"I  understand  that  my  attitude  about  my  work  must  often 
be  very  aggravating,"  he  said.  "But — " 

He  stopped,  said  nothing  more. 

"Let  us  believe  in  the  opera,"  she  exclaimed — "your  own 
child.  Then  others  will  believe  in  it,  too.  Alston  does." 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  the  tears  still  shining  in  her  eyes. 

"And  Jacob  Crayford  shall." 

After  a  moment  she  added: 

"  If  only  you  leave  him  to  me  and  don't  spoil  things." 

"How  could  I  spoil  my  own  music?"  he  asked. 

But  she  only  answered: 

"Oh,  Claude,  there  are  things  you  don't  understand!" 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

the  darned  fester's  come  back,  has  he?" 
Crayford  was  the  speaker.  Dressed  in  a  very  thin 
suit,  with  a  yellow  linen  coat  on  his  arm,  a  pair  of  goggles 
in  one  hand,  and  a  huge  silver  cigar-case,  "suitably  inscribed," 
in  the  other,  he  had  just  come  into  the  smoking-room  of  the 
Excelsior  Hotel. 

"They  gave  you  the  note,  then?"  said  Alston. 

"Yaw." 

Crayford  laid  the  coat  down,  opened  the  cigar-case,  and 
took  out  a  huge  Havana. 

"I  guess  we'll  let  the  car  wait  a  bit,  Alston,"  he  said, 
lighting  up.  "Of  course  she  telegraphed  him  to  come." 

"I'm  quite  sure  she  didn't,"  said  Alston  emphatically. 

"Think  I  can't  see?"  observed  Crayford  drily. 

He  sat  down  and  crossed  his  legs. 

"No.     But  even  you  can't  see  what  isn't." 

"There's  not  much  that  is  this  eye  don't  light  on.  The 
little  lady  up  at  D jen-anne-whatever  you  may  call  it  is  follow- 
ing up  a  spoor;  and  I'm  the  big  game  at  the  end  of  it.  She's 
out  to  bring  me  down,  my  boy.  Well,  that's  all  right,  only 
don't  you  two  take  me  for  too  much  of  an  innocent  little  thing, 
that's  all." 

Alston  said  nothing,  and  maintained  a  cheerful  and  imper- 
turbable expression. 

"  She's  brought  the  rester  back  so  as  not  to  miss  the  oppor- 
tunity of  his  life.  Now  I'll  tell  you  what  I'm  going  to  do.  I'm 
going  right  up  to  Djen-anne.  I'm  going  to  take  the  rester  by 
myself,  and  I'm  just  going  to  hear  that  darned  opera;  and 
neither  the  little  lady  nor  you's  going  to  get  a  look  in.  This  is 
up  to  me,  and  you'll  just  keep  right  out  of  it.  See?" 

He  turned  the  cigar  in  his  mouth,  and  his  tic  suddenly 
became  very  apparent. 

"And  what  am  I  to  do?"  asked  Alston. 

341 


342        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

"When  I  get  to  Djen-anne,  I'll  open  out  at  once,  come 
right  to  business.  You  stop  here.  As  likely  as  not  the  little 
lady'll  come  back  in  the  car  to  take  you  for  a  spin.  If  she 
does,  keep  her  out  till  late.  You  can  tell  her  a  good  bit 
depends  on  it." 

"Very  well." 

"Happen  she'll  dine  with  you?"  threw  out  Crayford, 
always  with  the  same  half-humorous  dryness. 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  wish  me  to  try  and  keep  Mrs. 
Heath  to  dinner?"  said  Alston,  with  bland  formality. 

"She  might  cheer  you  up.  You  might  cheer  each  other 
up." 

At  this  point  in  the  conversation  Crayford  allowed  a  faint 
smile  to  distort  slightly  one  corner  of  his  mouth. 

Charmian  did  come  down  from  Mustapha  in  Crayford's 
big  yellow  car.  She  was  in  a  state  of  great  excitement. 

"O  Alston!"  she  exclaimed,  "where  are  we  going? 
What  a  man  he  is  when  it  comes  to  business!  He  simply 
packed  me  off.  I  have  never  been  treated  in  such  a  way  be- 
fore. We've  got  hours  and  hours  to  fill  up  somehow.  I 
feel  almost  as  if  I  were  waiting  to  be  told  on  what  day  I  am 
to  be  guillotined,  like  a  French  criminal.  How  will  Claude 
get  on  with  him?  Just  think  of  those  two  shut  in  together!" 

As  Alston  got  into  the  car  she  repeated: 

"Where  are  we  going?" 

"  Allez  au  DiableJ"  said  Alston  to  Crayford's  chauffeur,  who 
was  a  Frenchman. 

"Bien,  m'sieul" 

"And — "  Alston  pulled  out  his  watch.  "You  must  take 
at  least  seven  hours  to  get  there." 

"  Tr&s  bien,  m'sieu." 

"That's  a  cute  fellow,"  said  Alston  to  Charmian,  as  they 
drove  off.  "Knows  how  to  time  things!" 

It  was  evening  when  they  returned  to  the  hotel,  dusty  and 
tired. 

"You'll  dine  with  me,  Mrs.  Charmian!"  said  Alston. 

"Oh,  no;  I  must  go  home  now.     I  can't  wait  any  longer." 

"Better  dine  with  me." 

She  took  off  her  big  motor  veil,  and  looked  at  him. 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        343 

"Did  Mr.  Crayford  say  I  was  to  dine  with  you?" 

"No.  But  he  evidently  thought  it  would  be  a  suitable 
arrangement." 

"But  what  will  people  think?" 

"What  they  always  do,  I  suppose." 

"Yes,  but  what's  that?" 

"I've  wondered  for  years!" 

He  held  out  his  big  hand.  Charmian  yielded  and  got  out 
of  the  car. 

At  ten  o'clock  Crayford  had  not  reappeared,  and  she  in- 
sisted on  returning  home. 

"I  can't  stay  out  all  night  even  for  an  impresario,"  she 
said. 

Alston  agreed,  and  they  went  out  to  the  front  door  to  get  a 
carriage. 

"Of  course  I'll  see  you  home,  Mrs.  Charmian." 

"Yes,  you  may." 

As  they  drove  off  she  exclaimed: 

"That  man  really  is  a  terror,  Alston,  or  should  I  say  a 
holy  terror?  Do  you  know,  I  feel  almost  guilty  in  daring  to 
venture  back  to  my  own  house." 

"Maybe  we'll  meet  him  on  the  way  up." 

"If  we  do  be  sure  you  stop  the  carriage." 

"But  if  he  doesn't  stop  his?" 

"Then  I'll  stop  it.  Keep  a  sharp  lookout.  I'm  tired, 
but  oh!  I  do  feel  so  excited.  You  look  out  all  the  time  on 
your  side,  and  I'll  do  the  same  on  mine." 

"Well,  but  we  meet  everything  on  the — 

"Never  mind!  Oh,  don't  be  practical  at  such  a  moment! 
He  might  pass  us  on  any  side." 

Alston  laughed  and  obeyed  her  mandate. 

They  were  a  long  way  up  the  hill,  and  were  near  to  the  church 
of  the  Holy  Trinity  when  Charmian  cried  out: 

"  There's  a  carriage  coming.    I  believe  he's  in  it." 

"Why?" 

"Because  I  do!    Be  ready  to  stop  him." 

"Gee!    He  is  in  it!    Hi!    Mr.  Crayford!    Crayford!" 

Charmian,  leaning  quickly  forward,  gave  their  astonished 
coachman  a  violent  push  in  the  small  of  his_back. 


344        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

"Stop!    Stop!" 

He  pulled  up  the  horses  with  a  jerk. 

"Hello!"  said  Crayford. 

He  took  off  his  hat. 

"  Goin'  home  to  roost?"  he  added  to  Charmian. 

"If  you  have  no  objection,"  she  answered,  with  a  pretense 
of  dignity. 

They  looked  at  one  another  in  the  soft  darkness  which  was 
illumined  by  the  lamps  of  the  two  carriages.  Crayford,  as 
usual,  was  smoking  a  big  cigar. 

"Have  you  dined?"  said  Alston. 

"Not  yet." 

"Have  you — "  Charmian  began,  and  paused.  "Have  you 
been  hearing  the  opera  all  this  time?" 

"Yaw." 

He  blew  out  a  smoke  ring. 

"Hearing  it  and  talking  things  over." 

Her  heart  leaped  with  hope  and  with  expectation. 

"Then  you — then  I  suppose — " 

"See  here,  little  lady,"  said  Crayford.  "I'm  not  feeling 
quite  as  full  as  I  should  like.  I  think  I'll  be  getting  home 
along.  Your  husband  will  tell  you  things,  I've  no  doubt. 
Want  Lake  to  see  you  in,  do  you?" 

"No.     I'm  almost  there." 

"Then  what  do  you  say  to  his  coming  back  with  me?" 

"Of  course.  Good-night,  Mr.  Lake.  No,  no!  I  don't 
want  you  really!  All  the  coachmen  know  me  here,  and  I 
them.  I've  driven  alone  dozens  of  times.  Good-night. 
Good-night,  Mr.  Crayford." 

She  almost  pushed  Alston  out  of  the  carriage  in  her  excite- 
ment. She  was  now  burning  with  impatience  to  be  with 
Claude. 

"Good-night,  good-night!"  she  called,  waving  her  hands  as 
the  horses  moved  forward. 

"She's  a  oner,"  said  Crayford.  "And  so  are  you  to  keep 
a  woman  like  that  quiet  all  these  hours.  My  boy,  I'm  empty, 
I  can  tell  you." 

He  said  not  a  word  to  Alston  about  the  opera  that  night, 
and  Alston  did  not  attempt  to  make  him  talk. 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        345 

When  Charmian  arrived  at  Djenan-el-Maqui  she  found 
Claude  in  the  little  dining-room  with  Caroline,  who  was  seated 
beside  him  on  a  chair,  leaning  her  lemon-colored  chin  upon  the 
table,  and  gazing  with  pathetic  eyes  at  the  cold  chicken  he 
was  eating. 

"O  Claude!"  she  said,  as  he  looked  round.  "Such  a 
day!  Well?" 

She  came  to  the  table,  pushed  Caroline  ruthlessly  to  the 
floor,  took  the  dog's  chair,  and  repeated,  "Well?" 

Claude's  face  was  flushed,  his  short  hair  was  untidy,  and 
the  eyes  which  he  fixed  upon  her  looked  excited,  tired,  and, 
she  thought,  something  else. 

"Is  anything  the  matter?" 

"No,  why  should  there  be?    Where  have  you  been?" 

"  With  Alston.  He  insisted  on  my  keeping  out  of  the  way. 
Crayford  I  mean,  of  course.  Has  it  gone  well?  Did  you 
play  the  whole  of  it;  all  you've  composed,  I  mean?" 

"Yes." 

"  What  did  he  say?    What  did  he  think  of  it?" 

"It  isn't  easy  to  know  exactly  what  that  kind  of  man 
thinks." 

"Was  he  disagreeable?    Didn't  you  get  on?" 

"Oh,  I  suppose  we  did." 

"What  did  he  say,  then?" 

"All  sorts  of  things." 

"  Go  on  eating.  You  look  dreadfully  tired.  Tell  me  some 
of  the  things." 

"Well,  he  liked  some  of  it." 

"Only  some?" 

"He  seemed  to  like  a  good  deal.  But  he  suggested  quanti- 
ties of  alterations." 

"Where?     Which  part?" 

"I  should  have  to  show  you." 

"Drink  some  wine.  I'm  sure  you  need  it.  Give  me  some 
idea.  You  can  easily  do  that  without  showing  me  to-night." 

"He  says  a  march  should  be  introduced.    You  know,  in 

that  scene — 

"I  know,  the  soldiers,  the  Foreign  Legion.  Well,  that 
would  be  easy  enough.  You  could  do  that  in  a  day." 


"  Do  you  think  one  has  only  to  sit  down?" 

"Two  days,  then;  a  week  if  you  like!  You  have  wonderful 
facility  when  you  choose.  And  what  else?  Here,  I'll  pour 
out  the  wine.  What  else?" 

"Heaps  of  things.  He  wants  to  pull  half  the  opera  to 
pieces,  I  think." 

"Oh,  no,  Claudie!  You  are  exaggerating.  You  always 
do,  dear  old  boy.  And  if  you  do  what  he  says,  what  then?" 

"How  d'you  mean?" 

"Would  he  take  it?    Would  he  produce  it?" 

"He  didn't  commit  himself." 

"Of  course  not!  They  never  do.  But  would  he?  You 
must  have  gathered  something  from  his  manner,  from  what 
he  said,  what  he  looked  like." 

"He  seemed  very  much  struck  with  the  libretto.  He  said 
there  were  great  opportunities  for  new  scenic  effects." 

"  He  is  going  to  take  it!  He  is!  He  is!"  she  cried  exultantly. 
"I  knew  he  would.  I  always  knew.  Why,  why  do  you 
look  so  grim,  Claudie?" 

She  threw  one  arm  round  his  neck  and  kissed  him. 

"Don't  look  like  that  when  we  are  on  the  eve  of  everything 
we've  been  working  for,  waiting — longing  for,  for  months  and 
years!  Caroline!  Caroline!" 

Caroline  hastily  indicated  her  presence. 

"Come  up!  The  darling,  she  shall  have  a  piece  of  cake, 
two  pieces!  There!  And  the  sugary  part,  too!" 

"You'll  make  her  ill." 

"Never  mind.  If  she  is  ill  it  is  in  a  good  cause.  Claudie, 
just  think,  you  are  going  to  be  another  Jacques  Sennier!  It's 
too  wonderful.  And  yet  I  knew  it.  Didn't  I  tell  you  that 
night  in  the  opera  house?  I  said  it  would  be  so.  Didn't  I? 
Can  you  deny  it?" 

"  I  don't  deny  it.    But—" 

"You  are  made  of  buts.  If  it  were  not  for  me  you  would 
go  and  hide  away  your  genius,  and  no  one  would  ever  know 
you  existed  at  all.  It's  pathetic.  But  you've  married  a 
wife  who  knows  what  you  are,  and  others  shall  know  too. 
The  whole  world  shall  know." 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        347 

He  could  not  help  laughing  at  her  -wild  enthusiasm.  But 
he  said,  with  a  sobriety  that  almost  made  her  despair: 

"You  are  going  too  fast,  Charmian.  I'm  not  at  all  sure 
that  I  shall  be  able  to  consent  to  make  changes  in  the  opera." 

Then  began  a  curious  conflict  which  lasted  for  days  between 
Claude  Heath  on  the  one  side,  and  Charmian,  Alston  Lake, 
and  Crayford  on  the  other.  It  was  really  a  tragic  conflict, 
for  it  was,  Claude  believed,  the  last  stand  made  by  an  artist 
in  defense  of  his  art.  Never  had  he  felt  so  much  alone  as 
during  these  days  of  conflict.  Yet  he  was  in  his  own  home, 
with  a  wife  who  was  working  for  him,  a  devoted  friend  who 
was  longing  for  his  success,  and  a  man  who  was  seriously 
thinking  of  bringing  him  and  his  work  into  the  notice  of  the 
vast  world  that  loves  opera.  No  one  knew  of  his  loneliness. 
No  one  even  suspected  it.  And  comedy  hung,  as  it  ever  does, 
about  the  heels  of  tragedy. 

Crayford  revealed  himself  in  his  conflict.  He  was  a  self- 
made  man,  and  before  he  "went  in"  for  opera  had  been  a 
showman  all  over  the  States,  and  had  made  a  quantity  of 
money.  He  had  run  a  menagerie,  more  than  one  circus,  had 
taken  about  a  "fake-hypnotist,"  a  "living-magnet,"  and 
other  delights.  Then  he  had  "started  in"  as  a  music-hall 
manager.  With  music  halls  he  had  been  marvellously  success- 
ful. He  still  held  interests  in  halls  all  over  the  States.  More 
recently  he  had  been  one  of  the  first  men  to  see  the  possibilities 
in  moving  pictures,  and  had  made  a  big  pile  with  cinemato- 
graph halls.  But  always,  even  from  the  beginning,  beneath 
the  blatant  cleverness,  the  vulgar  ingenuities  of  the  showman, 
there  had  been  something  else;  something  that  had  ambition 
not  wholly  vulgar,  that  had  ideals,  furtive  perhaps,  but 
definite,  that  had  aspirations.  And  this  something,  that  was 
of  the  soul  of  the  man,  was  incessantly  feeling  its  way  through 
the  absurdities,  the  vulgarities,  the  deceptions,  the  inanities, 
toward  a  goal  that  was  worth  the  winning.  Crayford  had 
always  wanted  to  be  one  of  the  recognized  leaders  of  what  he 
called  "high-class  artistic  enterprise"  in  the  States,  and 
especially  in  his  native  city  of  New  York.  And  he  was  ready 
to  spend  a  lot  of  his  "pile"  to  "get  there." 

Of  late  years  he  had  been  getting  there.    He  had  run  a 


348        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

fine  theater  on  Broadway,  and  had  "presented"  several  native 
and  foreign  stars  in  productions  which  had  been  remarkable 
for  the  beauty  and  novelty  of  the  staging  and  "  effects."  And, 
finally,  he  had  built  an  opera  house,  ^,nd  had  "put  up"  a  big 
fight  against  the  mighty  interests  concentrated  in  the  New 
York  Metropolitan.  He  had  dropped  thousands  upon 
thousands  of  dollars.  But  he  was  now  a  very  rich  man,  and 
he  was  a  man  who  was  prepared  to  lose  thousands  on  the  road 
if  he  reached  the  goal  at  last.  He  was  a  good  fighter,  a  man 
of  grit,  a  man  with  a  busy  brain,  and  a  profound  belief  in  his 
own  capacities.  And  he  was  remarkably  clever.  Somehow 
he  had  picked  up  three  foreign  languages.  Somehow  he 
had  learned  a  good  deal  about  a  variety  of  subjects,  among 
them  music.  Combative,  he  would  yield  to  no  opinion, 
even  on  matters  of  which  he  knew  far  less  than  those  opposed 
to  him.  But  he  had  a  natural  "flair"  which  often  carried  him 
happily  through  difficult  situations,  and  helped  him  to  "win 
out  all  right"  in  the  end.  The  old  habit  of  the  showman 
made  him  inclined  to  look  on  those  whom  he  presented  in  his 
various  enterprises  as  material,  and  sometimes  battled  with  an 
artistic  instinct  which  often  led  him  to  pick  out  what  was  good 
from  the  seething  mass  of  mediocrity.  He  believed  profoundly 
in  names.  But  he  believed  also  in  "new  blood,"  and  was  for 
ever  on  the  lookout  for  it. 

He  felt  pretty  sure  he  had  found  "new  blood"  at  Djenan- 
el-Maqui. 

But  Claude  must  trust  him,  bow  to  him,  be  ready  to  follow 
his  lead  of  a  long  experience  if  he  was  to  do  anything  with 
Claude's  work.  Great  names  he  let  alone.  They  had  cap- 
tured the  public  and  had  to  be  trusted.  But  people  without 
names  must  be  malleable  as  wax  is.  Otherwise  he  would  not 
touch  them. 

Such  was  the  man  who  entered  into  the  conflict  with  Claude. 
Charmian  was  passionately  on  his  side  because  of  ambition. 
Alston  Lake  was  on  his  side  because  of  gratitude,  and  in 
expectation. 

The  opera  was  promising,  but  it  had  to  be  "made  over," 
and  Crayford  was  absolutely  resolved  that  made  over  it  should 
be  in  accordance  with  his  ideas. 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        349 

"I  don't  spend  thousands  over  a  thing  unless  I  have  my 
say  in  what  it's  to  be  like,"  he  remarked,  with  a  twist  of  his 
body,  at  a  crisis  of  the  conflict  with  Claude.  "  I  wouldn't  do 
it.  It's  me  that  is  out  to  lose  if  the  darned  thing's  a  failure." 

There  was  a  silence.  The  discussion  had  been  long  and 
ardent.  Outside,  the  heat  brooded  almost  sternly  over  the 
land,  for  the  sky  was  covered  with  a  film  of  gray,  unbroken  by 
any  crevice  through  which  the  blue  could  be  seen.  It  was  a 
day  on  which  nerves  get  unstrung,  on  which  the  calmest, 
most  equable  people  are  apt  to  lose  their  tempers  suddenly, 
unexpectedly. 

Claude  had  felt  as  if  he  were  being  steadily  thrashed  with 
light  little  rods,  which  drew  no  blood,  but  which  were  gradu- 
ally bruising  him,  bruising  every  part  of  him.  But  when 
Crayford  said  these  last  sentences  it  seemed  to  Claude  as  if 
the  blood  came  oozing  out  in  tiny  drops.  And  from  the  very- 
depths  of  him,  of  the  real  genuine  man  who  lay  in  concealment, 
rose  a  lava  stream  of  contempt,  of  rage.  He  opened  his  lips 
to  give  it  freedom.  But  Charmian  spoke  quickly,  anxiously, 
and  her  eyes  travelled  swiftly  from  Claude's  face  to  Alston's, 
and  to  Crayford's. 

"Then  if  we — I  mean  if  my  husband  does  what  you  wish, 
you  will  spend  thousands  over  it?"  she  said,  "you  will  produce 
it,  give  it  its  chance?" 

Never  yet  had  that  question  been  asked.  Never  had 
Crayford  said  anything  definite.  Naturally  it  had  been 
assumed  that  he  would  not  waste  his  time  over  a  thing  in 
which  he  did  not  think  of  having  a  money  interest.  But  he 
had  been  careful  not  to  commit  himself  to  any  exact  statement 
which  could  be  brought  against  him  if,  later  on,  he  decided  to 
drop  the  whole  affair.  Charmian's  abrupt  interposition 
was  a  challenge.  It  held  Claude  dumb,  despite  that  rage  of 
contempt.  It  drew  Alston's  eyes  to  the  face  of  his  patron. 
There  was  a  moment  of  tense  silence.  In  it  Claude  felt 
that  he  was  waiting  for  a  verdict  that  would  decide  his  fate, 
not  as  a  successful  man,  but  as  a  self-respecting  artist.  As 
he  looked  at  the  face  of  his  wife  he  knew  he  had  not  the  strength 
to  decide  his  own  fate  for  himself  in  accordance  with  the  dic- 
tates of  the  hidden  man  within  him.  He  strove  to  summon 


up  that  strength,  but  a  sense  of  pity,  that  perhaps  really  was 
akin  to  love,  intervened  to  prevent  its  advent.  Charmian's 
eyes  seemed  to  hold  her  soul  in  that  moment.  He  could  not 
strike  it  down  into  the  dust  of  despair; 

Crayford's  eyebrows  twitched  violently,  and  he  turned  the 
big  cigar  that  was  between  his  lips  round  and  round.  Then 
he  took  it  out  of  his  mouth,  looked  at  Charmian,  and  said: 

"Yah!" 

Charmian  turned  and  looked  into  Claude's  eyes.  She  did 
not  say  a  word.  But  her  eyes  were  a  mandate,  and  they  were 
also  a  plea.  They  drove  back,  beat  down  the  hidden  man  into 
the  depths  where  he  made  his  dwelling. 

"Well,"  said  Crayford  roughly,  almost  rudely,  to  Claude, 
"how's  it  going  to  be?  I  want  to  know  just  where  I  am  in 
this  thing.  This  aren't  the  only  enterprise  I've  got  on  the 
stocks  by  a  long  way.  I  wasn't  born  and  bred  a  nigger,  nor 
yet  an  Arab,  and  I  can't  sit  sweltering  here  for  ever  trying  to 
find  out  where  I  am  and  where  I'm  coming  to.  We've  got 
to  get  down  to  business.  The  little  lady  is  worth  a  ton  of 
men,  composers  or  not.  She's  got  us  to  the  point,  and  now 
there's  no  getting  away  from  it.  I'm  stuck,  dead  stuck,  on 
this  libretto.  Now,  it's  not  a  bit  of  use  your  getting  red  and 
firing  up,  my  boy.  I'm  not  saying  a  word  against  you  and  your 
music.  But  the  first  thing  is  the  libretto.  Why,  how  could 
you  write  an  opera  without  a  libretto?  Just  tell  me  that! 
Very  well,  then.  You've  got  the  best  libretto  since  '  Carmen,' 
and  you've  got  to  write  the  best  opera  since  '  Carmen.'  Well, 
seems  to  me  you've  made  a  good  start,  but  you're  too  far  away 
from  ordinary  folk.  Now,  don't  think  I  want  you  to  play 
down.  I  don't.  I've  got  a  big  reputation  in  the  States, 
though  you  mayn't  think  it,  and  I  can't  afford  to  spoil  it. 
Play  for  the  center.  That's  my  motto.  Shoot  to  hit  the  bull's 
eye,  not  a  couple  of  feet  above  it." 

"Hear,  hear!"  broke  in  Lake,  in  his  strong  baritone. 

"Ah!"  breathed  Charmian. 

Crayford  almost  swelled  with  satisfaction  at  this  dual 
backing.  Again  he  twisted  his  body,  and  threw  back  his 
head  with  a  movement  he  probably  thought  Napoleonic. 

"Play    for    the  center!    That's  the  game.     Now  you're 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        351 

aiming  above  it,  and  my  business  is  to  bring  you  to  the  center. 
Why,  my  boy"— his  tone  was  changing  under  the  influence  of 
self-satisfaction,  was  becoming  almost  paternal — "all  I,  all 
we  want  is  your  own  good.  All  we  want  is  a  big  success, 
like  that  chap  Sennier  has  made,  or  a  bit  bigger — eh,  little 
lady?  Why  should  you  think  we  are  your  enemies?" 

" Enemies!     I  never  said  that!"  interrupted  Claude. 

His  face  was  burning.  He  was  perspiring.  He  was  longing 
to  break  out  of  the  room,  out  of  the  villa,  to  rush  away — away 
into  some  desert  place,  and  to  be  alone. 

"  Who  says  such  things?    No;  but  you  look  it,  you  look  it." 

"I  can't  help — how  would  you  have  me  look?" 

"Now,  my  boy,  don't  get  angry!" 

"  Claudie,  we  all  only  want — " 

"I  know— I  know!" 

He  clenched  his  wet  hands. 

"Well,  tell  me  what  you  want,  all  you  want,  and  I'll  try 
to  do  it." 

"That's  talking!"  cried  Crayford.  "Now,  from  this 
moment  we  know  what  we're  up  against.  And  I'll  tell  you 
what.  Sitting  here  as  we  are,  in  this  one-horse  heat  next  door 
but  one  to  Hell — don't  mind  me,  little  lady!  I'll  stop  right 
there! — we're  getting  on  to  something  that's  going  to  astonish 
the  world.  I  know  what  I'm  talking  about — 's  going  to 
astonish — the — world!  And  now  we'll  start  right  in  to  hit  the 
center!" 

And  from  that  moment  they  started  in.  Once  Claude  had 
given  way  he  made  no  further  resistance.  He  talked,  discussed, 
tried  sometimes,  rather  feebly,  to  put  forward  his  views. 
But  he  was  letting  himself  go  with  the  tide,  and  he  knew  it. 
He  secretly  despised  himself.  Yet  there  were  moments  when 
he  was  carried  away  by  a  sort  of  spurious  enthusiasm,  when  the 
desire  for  fame,  for  wide  success,  glowed  in  him ;  not  at  all  as  it 
glowed  in  Charmian,  yet  with  a  warmth  that  cheered  him. 
Out  of  this  opera,  now  that  it  was  being  "made  over"  by  Jacob 
Crayford,  with  his  own  consent,  he  desired  only  the  one  thing, 
popular  success.  It  was  not  his  own  child.  And  in  art  he 
did  not  know  how  to  share.  He  could  only  be  really  enthu- 
siastic, enthusiastic  in  the  soul  of  him,  when  the  thing  he  had 


352        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

created  was  his  alone.  So  now,  leaving  aside  all  question  of 
that  narrow  but  profound  success,  which  repays  every  man 
who  does  exactly  what  the  best  part  of  him  has  willed  to  do, 
Claude  strove  to  fasten  all  his  desire  on  a  wide  and  perhaps 
shallow  success. 

And  sometimes  he  was  able,  helped  by  the  enthusiasm — a 
genuine  enthusiasm — of  his  three  companions,  to  be  almost 
gay  and  hopeful,  to  be  carried  on  by  their  hopes. 

As  his  enthusiasm  of  the  soul  died  Jacob  Crayford's  was 
born;  for  where  Claude  lost  he  gained.  He  was  now  assisting 
to  make  an  opera;  with  every  day  his  fondness  for  the  work 
increased.  Although  he  could  be  hard  and  business-like,  he 
could  also  be  affectionate  and  eager.  Now  that  Claude  had 
given  in  to  him  he  became  almost  paternal.  He  was  a  sort  of 
"Padre  eterno"  in  Djenan-el-Maqui,  and  he  thoroughly 
enjoyed  his  position.  The  more  he  did  to  the  opera,  in  the  way 
of  suggestion  of  effects  and  interpolations,  re-arrangement  and 
transposition  of  scenes,  cuttings  out  and  writings  in,  the  more 
firmly  did  he  believe  in  it. 

"Put  in  that  march  and  it  wakes  the  whole  thing  up," 
he  would  say;  or  "that  quarrelling  scene  with  the  Spahis" — 
thought  of  by  himself — "makes  your  opera  a  different  thing." 

And  then  his  whole  forehead  would  twitch,  his  eyes  would 
flash,  and  he  would  pull  the  little  beard  till  Charmian  almost 
feared  he  would  pull  it  off.  He  had  returned  to  his  obsession 
about  the  young.  Frequently  he  reiterated  with  fervor  that 
his  chief  pleasure  in  the  power  he  wielded  came  from  the  fact 
that  it  enabled  him  to  help  the  careers  of  young  people. 

"Look  at  Alston!"  he  would  say.  "Where  would  he  be 
now  if  I  hadn't  got  hold  of  his  talent?  In  Wall  Street  eating 
his  heart  out.  I  met  him,  and  I'll  make  him  another  Battistini. 
See  here" — and  he  turned  sharply  to  Claude — "I'll  bring  him 
out  in  your  opera.  That  baritone  part  could  easily  be  worked 
up  a  bit,  brought  forward  more  into  the  limelight.  Why,  it 
would  strengthen  the  opera,  give  it  more  backbone.  Mind 
you,  I  wouldn't  spoil  the  score  not  for  all  the  Alstons  ever 
created.  Art  comes  first  with  me,  and  they  know  it  from 
Central  Park  to  San  Francisco.  But  the  baritone  part  would 
bear  strengthening.  It's  for  the  good  of  the  opera." 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        353 

That  phrase  "for  the  good  of  the  opera"  was  ever  on  his 
lips.  Claude  rose  up  and  went  to  bed  with  it  ringing  in  his 
ears.  It  seemed  that  he,  the  composer,  knew  little  or  nothing 
about  his  own  work.  The  sense  of  form  was  leaving  him. 
Once  the  work  had  seemed  to  him  to  have  a  definite  shape; 
now,  when  he  considered  it,  it  seemed  to  have  no  shape  at  all. 
But  Crayford  and  Charmian  and  Alston  Lake  declared  that  it 
was  twice  as  strong,  twice  as  remarkable,  as  it  had  been  before 
Crayford  took  it  in  hand. 

"He's  a  genius  in  his  own  way!"  Lake  swore. 

Claude  was  tempted  to  reply: 

"No  doubt.    But  he's  not  a  genius  in  my  way." 

But  he  refrained.  What  would  be  the  use?  And  Charmian 
agreed  with  Alston.  She  and  Crayford  were  the  closest,  the 
dearest  of  friends.  He  admired  not  only  her  appearance, 
which  pleased  her,  but  her  capacities,  which  delighted  her. 

"She's  no  rester!"  he  would  say  emphatically.  "Works 
all  the  time.  Never  met  an  Englishwoman  like  her!" 

Charmian  almost  loved  him  for  the  words.  At  last  some- 
one, and  a  big  man,  recognized  her  for  what  she  was.  She 
had  never  been  properly  appreciated  before.  Triumph  burned 
within  her,  and  fired  her  ambitions  anew.  She  felt  almost  as 
if  she  were  a  creator. 

"If  Madre  only  knew,"  she  thought.  "She  has  never  quite 
understood  me." 

While  Claude  was  working  on  the  new  alterations  and 
developments  devised  by  Crayford — and  he  worked  like  a 
slave  driven  on  by  the  expectations  of  those  about  him, 
scourged  to  his  work  by  their  desires — Lake  studied  the  bari- 
tone part  in  the  opera  with  enthusiasm,  and  Crayford  and 
Charmian  "put  their  heads  together"  over  the  scenery  and 
the  "effects." 

"We  must  have  it  all  cut  and  dried  before  I  sail,"  said 
Crayford.  "And  I  can't  stay  much  longer;  ought  really 
have  been  back  home  along  by  now." 

"Let  me  help  you!    I'll  do  anything!"  she  cried. 

"And,  by  Gee!  I  believe  you  could  if  you  set  your  mind 
to  it,"  he  answered.  "Now,  see  here — " 

They  plunged  deep  into  the  libretto. 

23 


354        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

Crayford  was  resolved  to  astonish  New  York  with  his 
production  of  the  opera. 

"We'll  have  everything  real,"  he  said.  "We'll  begin  with 
real  Arabs.  I'll  have  no  fake-niggers;  nothing  of  that  kind." 

That  Arabs  are  not  niggers  did  not  trouble  him  at  all.  He 
and  Charmian  went  down  together  repeatedly  into  the  city, 
interviewed  all  sorts  of  odd  people. 

"I'm  out  for  dancers  to-day,"  he  said  one  morning. 

And  they  set  off  to  "put  Algiers  through  the  sieve"  for 
dancing  girls.  They  found  painters,  and  Crayford  took  them 
to  the  Casbah,  and  to  other  nooks  and  corners  of  the  town,  to 
make  drawings  for  Him  to  carry  away  to  New  York  as  a  guide 
to  his  scenic  artist.  They  got  hold  of  a  Fakir,  who  had 
drifted  from  India  to  North  Africa,  and  Crayford  engaged  him 
on  the  spot  to  appear  in  one  of  the  scenes  and  perform  some  of 
his  marvels. 

"Claude" — the  composer  was  Claude  to  him  now — "can 
write  in  something  weird  to  go  with  it,"  he  said. 

And  Charmian  of  course  agreed. 

It  had  been  decided  that  the  opera  should  be  produced  at 
the  New  Era  Opera  House  some  time  in  the  New  Year,  if 
Claude  carried  out  faithfully  all  the  changes  which  Crayford 
demanded. 

"He  will.  He  has  promised  to  do  everything  you  wish," 
said  Charmian. 

"You  stand  by  and  see  to  it,  little  lady,"  said  Crayford. 
"Happen  when  I'm  gone,  when  the  slave-driver's  gone,  eh, 
he'll  get  slack,  begin  to  think  he  knows  more  about  it  than 
I  do!  He's  not  too  pleased  making  the  changes.  I  can  see 
that." 

"It  will  be  all  right,  I  promise  you.  Claude  isn't  so  mad 
as  to  lose  the  chance  you  are  offering  him." 

"It's  the  chance  of  a  lifetime.     I  can  tell  you  that." 

"He  realizes  it." 

"I'll  tell  you  something.  Only  you  needn't  go  telling 
everybody." 

"I  won't  tell  a  soul." 

"And  watch  out  for  the  bodies,  too.  Well,  I'm  going  to 
run  Claude  against  Jacques  Sennier.  Mind  you,  I  wouldn't 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        355 

do  it  if  it  wasn't  for  the  libretto.  Seems  to  me  the  music  is 
good  enough  to  carry  it,  and  it's  going  to  be  a  lot  better  now 
I've  made  it  over.  Sennier's  new  opera  is  expected  to  be 
ready  for  March  at  latest.  We'll  produce  ours" — Charmian 
thrilled  at  that  word — "just  about  the  same  time,  a  day  or 
two  before,  or  after.  I'll  get  together  a  cast  that  no  opera 
house  in  this  world  or  the  next  can  better.  I'll  have  scenery 
and  effects  such  as  haven't  been  seen  on  any  stage  in  the 
world  before.  I'll  show  the  Metropolitan  what  opera  is,  and 
I'll  give  them  and  Sennier  a  knock  out,  or  I'm  only  fit  to  run 
cinematograph  shows,  and  take  about  fakes  through  the  one 
night  stands.  But  Claude's  got  to  back  me  up.  I  don't  sign 
any  contract  till  every  note  in  his  score's  in  its  place." 

"But  you'll  be  in  America  when  he  finishes  it." 

"That  don't  matter.  You're  here  to  see  he  don't  make 
any  changes  from  what  I've  fixed  on.  We've  got  that  all  cut 
and  dried  now.  It's  only  the  writing's  got  to  be  done.  I'll 
trust  him  for  that.  But  there's  not  a  scene  that's  to  be  cut 
out,  or  a  situation  to  be  altered,  now  I've  fixed  everything  up. 
If  you  cable  me,  'Opera  finished  according  to  decision,'  I'll 
take  your  word,  get  out  a  contract,  and  go  right  ahead. 
You'll  have  to  bring  him  over." 

"Of  course!    Of  course!" 

"And  I'll  get  up  a  boom  for  you  both  that'll  make  the 
Senniers  look  like  old  bones." 

He  suddenly  twisted  his  body,  stuck  out  his  under  jaw, 
and  said  in  a  grim  and  determined  voice  which  Charmian 
scarcely  recognized  as  his: 

"  I've  got  to  down  the  Metropolitan  crowd  this  winter.  I've 
got  to  do  it  if  I  spend  four  hundred  thousand  dollars  over  it." 

He  stared  at  Charmian,  and  added  after  a  moment  of  silence: 

"And  this  is  the  only  opera  I've  found  that  might  help  me 
to  do  it,  though  I've  searched  all  Europe.  So  now  you  know 
just  where  we  are.  It's  a  fight,  little  lady!  And  it's  up  to 
us  to  be  the  top  dogs  at  the  finish  of  it." 

"And  we  will  be  the  top  dogs!"  she  exclaimed. 

From  that  moment  she  regarded  Claude  as  a  weapon  in  the 
fight  which  must  be  won  if  she  were  to  achieve  her  great 
ambition. 


CHAPTER 

ON  a  January  evening  in  the  following  year  Claude  and 
Charmian  had  just  finished  dinner,  and  Claude  got  up, 
rather  slowly  and  wearily,  from  the  small  table  which 
stood  in  the  middle  of  their  handsome  red  sitting-room  on  the 
eighth  floor  of  the  St.  Regis  Hotel  in  New  York. 

"How  terribly  hot  this  room  is!"  he  said. 

"Americans  like  their  rooms  hot.  But  open  a  little  bit  of 
the  window,  Claudie." 

"If  I  do  the  noise  of  Fifth  Avenue  will  come  in." 

He  spoke  almost  irritably,  like  a  man  whose  nerves  were 
tired.  But  Charmian  did  not  seem  to  notice  it.  She  looked 
bright,  resolute,  dominant,  as  she  replied  in  her  clear  voice: 

"Let  it  come  in.  I  like  to  hear  it.  It  is  the  voice  of  the 
world  we  are  here  to  conquer.  Don't  look  at  me  like  that, 
dear  old  boy,  but  open  the  window.  The  air  will  do  you  good. 
You're  tired.  I  shouldn't  have  allowed  you  to  work  during 
the  voyage." 

"I  had  to  work." 

"Well,  very  soon  you'll  be  able  to  rest,  and  on  laurels." 

Claude  went  to  open  the  big  window,  pulling  aside  the 
blind,  while  Charmian  lighted  a  cigarette,  and  curled  herself 
up  on  the  padded  sofa.  And  as,  in  a  moment,  the  roar  of  the 
gigantic  city  swelled  in  a  fierce  crescendo,  she  leaned  forward 
with  the  cigarette  in  her  hand,  listening  intently,  half  smiling, 
with  an  eager  light  in  her  eyes. 

"What  a  city  it  is!"  she  said,  as  Claude  turned  and  came 
toward  her.  "It  makes  London  seem  almost  like  a  village. 
Fm  glad  it  is  here  the  opera  is  to  be  given  for  the  first  time." 

"So  am  I,"  he  said,  sitting  down. 

But  he  spoke  almost  gloomily,  looking  at  the  floor.  His 
face  was  white  and  too  expressive,  and  his  left  hand,  as  it 
hung  down  between  his  knees,  fluttered.  He  lifted  it,  turning 
the  fingers  inward. 

356 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        357 

"Why?"  Charmian  said. 

He  looked  up  at  her. 

"Oh,  I — they  are  all  strangers  here." 

She  said  nothing,  and  just  then  the  telephone  bell  sounded. 
Mr.  Alston  Lake  was  below  asking  if  Mr.  Heath  was  in. 

In  a  moment  he  entered,  looking  enthusiastic,  full  of  cheer- 
fulness and  vitality,  bringing  with  him  an  atmosphere  which 
Charmian  savored  almost  greedily,  of  expectation  and  virile 
optimism. 

" My!"  he  said,  as  he  shook  them  both  by  the  hand.  "  You 
look  settled  in  for  the  night." 

"  So  we  are,"  said  Charmian. 

Alston  laughed. 

"I've  come  to  take  you  to  the  theater." 

"But  they're  not  rehearsing  to-night,"  said  Claude. 

"No;  but  Crayford's  trying  effects." 

"Mr.  Crayford!  Is  he  back  from  Philadelphia?"  exclaimed 
Channian. 

"Been  back  an  hour  and  hard  at  work  already.  He  sent 
me  to  fetch  you.  They're  all  up  on  the  stage  trying  to  get 
the  locust  effect." 

"The  locusts!  Wait  a  minute,  Alston!  I'll  change  my 
gown." 

She  hurried  out  of  the  room. 

"Well,  old  chap,  what's  up?  You  don't  look  too  pleased," 
said  Alston  to  Claude  as  the  door  shut.  "Don't  you  want 
to  come  out?  But  we  must  put  our  backs  into  this,  you 
know.  The  fight's  on,  and  a  bully  big  fight  it  is.  Seen  the 
papers  to-day?" 

"No.  I  haven't  had  a  minute.  I've  been  going  through 
the  orchestration  with  Meroni." 

"What  does  he  say?" 

"He  was  very  nice,"  answered  Claude  evasively.  "But 
what's  in  the  papers?" 

"A  bit  of  news  that's  made  Crayford  bristle  like  a  scrubbing 
brush.  The  Metropolitan's  changed  the  date  for  the  pro- 
duction of  Sennier's  new  opera,  put  it  forward  by  nearly  a  fort- 
night, pledged  themselves  to  be  ready  by  the  first  of  March." 

"What  does  it  matter?" 


358        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

"Well,  I  like  that!  It  takes  all  the  wind  out  of  our  sails. 
In  a  big  race  the  getting  off  is  half  the  battle.  We  were 
coming  first.  But  if  I  know  anything  of  Crayford  we  shall 
come  first  even  now.  It's  all  Madame  Sennier.  She's  mad 
against  Crayford  and  the  opera  and  you,  and  she's  specially 
mad  against  Mrs.  Charmiart.  The  papers  to-night  are  full  of 
a  lot  of  nonsense  about  the  libretto." 

"Which  libretto?" 

"  Yours.  Apparently  Madame  Sennier's  been  saying  it  was 
really  written  for  Sennier  and  had  been  promised  to  him." 

"That's  a  lie." 

"Of  course  it  is.  But  she's  spread  herself  on  it  finely, 
I  can  tell  you.  Crayford's  simply  delighted." 

"Delighted,  when  I'm  accused  of  mean  conduct,  of  stealing 
another  man's  property." 

"It's  no  use  getting  furious  over  our  papers!  Doesn't 
pay!  Besides,  it  makes  a  story,  works  up  public  interest. 
Still,  I  think  she  might  have  kept  out  Mrs.  Charmian's 
name." 

"Charmian  is  in  it?" 

"  Yes,  a  lot  of  rubbish  about  her  hearing  what  a  stunner 
the  libretto  was,  and  rushing  over  to  Paris  to  bribe  it  away 
before  Sennier  had  considered  it  in  its  finished  state." 

"How  abominable!    I  shall — " 

"I  know,  but  I  wouldn't.  Crayford  says  it  will  give  value 
to  the  libretto,  prepare  the  public  mind  for  a  masterpiece,  and 
help  to  carry  your  music  to  success." 

"I  see!    With  this  and  the  locusts!" 

He  turned  away  toward  the  open  window,  through  which 
came  the  incessant  roar  of  traffic,  the  sound  of  motor  horns, 
and  now,  for  a  moment,  a  chiming  of  bells  from  St.  Patrick's 
Cathedral. 

"Well,  we  must  do  all  we  know.  We  mustn't  give  away  a 
single  chance.  The  whole  Metropolitan  crowd  is  just  crazy 
to  down  us,  and  we  must  put  up  the  biggest  fight  we  can. 
Leave  it  all  to  Crayford.  He  knows  more  than  any  living 
man  about  a  boom.  And  he  said  just  now  Madame  Sennier 
was  a  deed  fool  to  have  given  us  such  a  lift  with  her  libel. 
There'll  be  a  crowd  of  pressmen  around  at  the  theater  about 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        359 

it  to-night,  you  can  bet.    Here  she  comes!    Get  on  your 

coat,  and  let's  be  off,  or  Crayford'll  be  raging." 

Claude  stood  still  for  an  instant,  looking  from  Alston  to 

Charmian,  who  walked  in  briskly,  wearing  a  sealskin  coat 

that  reached  to  her  heels,  and  buttoning  long  white  gloves. 

Then  he  said,  "I  won't  be  a  minute!"  and  went  out  of  the 

room. 
As  he  disappeared  Charmian  and  Alston  looked  after  him. 

Then  Alston  came  nearer  to  her,  and  they  began  to  talk  in 

rather  low  voices. 
"The  fight  is  on!" 
How  Claude  hated  those  words;  how  he  hated  the  truth 

which  they  expressed!  To-night,  in  New  York,  as  he  went 
to  fetch  his  overcoat  from  the  smart  and  brilliantly  lit  bed- 
room which  was  opposite  to  the  sitting-room  across  a  lobby, 
he  wondered  why  Fate  had  led  him  into  this  situation,  why 
he  had  been  doomed  to  become  a  sort  of  miserable  center  of 
intrigue,  recrimination,  discussion,  praise,  blame,  dissension. 
No  man,  surely,  on  the  face  of  the  earth  had  loved  tranquillity 
more  than  he  had.  Few  men  had  more  surely  possessed  it. 
He  had  known  his  soul  and  he  had  been  its  faithful  guardian 
once — but  long  ago,  surely  centuries  ago!  That  he  should  be 
the  cause  of  battle,  what  an  irony! 

Thinking  with  great  rapidity,  during  this  brief  interval 
of  loneliness,  while  he  got  ready  to  go  out,  a  rapidity  to  which 
his  fatigue  seemed  to  contribute,  giving  it  wings,  Claude  re- 
viewed his  life  since  the  first  evening  at  Elliot's  house.  Events 
and  periods  and  details  flashed  by;  his  close  friendship  with 
Mrs.  Mansfield  (who  had  refused  to  come  to  America),  his 
almost  inimical  acquaintance  with  Charmian,  Mrs.  Shiffney's 
capricious  endeavors  to  get  hold  of  him,  the  firmness  of  his 
refusals,  the  voyage  to  Algiers,  his  regret  at  missing  the 
wonders  of  Africa,  Charmian's  return  full  of  a  knowledge  he 
lacked,  the  dinner  during  which  he  had  looked  at  her  with  new 
eyes. 

(He  took  down  from  its  hook  his  heavy  fur  coat  bought  for 
the  bitter  winter  of  New  York.) 

Chateaubriand's  description  of  Napoleon,  the  little  island  in 
Mrs.  Grahame's  garden,  the  production  of  Jacques  Sennier's 


360        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

opera — they  were  all  linked  together  closely  at  this  moment  in 
a  tenacious  mind;  with  the  expression  in  Charmian's  eyes  at 
the  end  of  the  opera,  Oxford  Street  by  night  as  he  walked 
home,  the  spectral  bunch  of  white  roses  on  his  table,  the 
furtive  whisper  of  the  letter  of  love  to  Charmian  as  it  dropped 
in  the  box,  the  watchful  policeman,  the  noise  of  his  heavy 
steps,  the  dying  of  the  moonlight  on  the  leaded  panes  of  the 
studio,  the  scent  of  the  earth  as  the  dawn  near  drew. 

Events  and  periods,  and  little  details!  And  who  or  what 
had  guided  him  through  the  maze  of  them?  And  whither  was 
he  going?  Whither  and  to  what  was  he  hastening? 

His  marriage  and  the  new  life  came  back  to  him.  He  heard 
the  maids  whispering  together  on  the  stairs  in  Kensington 
Square,  and  the  sound  of  the  street  organ  in  the  frost.  He 
saw  the  studio  in  Renwick  Place,  Charmian  coming  in  with 
books  of  poetry  in  her  hands.  There,  had  been  the  beginning 
of  that  which  had  led  to  Algiers  and  now  to  New  York,  his 
abdication.  There,  he  had  taken  the  first  step  down  from 
the  throne  of  his  own  knowledge  of  himself. 

He  saw  a  gulf  black  beneath  him. 

But  Charmian  called: 

"  Claude,  do  make  haste!" 

He  caught  up  hat  and  gloves  and  went  out  into  the  lobby. 
But  even  as  he  went,  with  an  extraordinary  swiftness  he 
reviewed  the  incidents  of  his  short  time  in  America;  the  arrival 
in  the  cruel  coldness  of  a  winter  dawn;  the  immensity  of  the 
city's  aspect  seen  across  the  tufted  waters,  its  towers — as 
they  had  seemed  to  him  then — climbing  into  Heaven,  its 
voices  companioning  its  towers;  the  throngs  of  pressmen  and 
photographers,  who  had  gazed  at  him  with  piercing,  yet 
not  unkind,  eyes,  searching  him  for  his  secrets;  the  meeting 
with  Crayford  and  Crayford's  small  army  of  helpers;  publicity 
agents,  business  and  stage  managers,  conductors,  producers, 
machinists,  typewriters,  box-office  people,  scene  painters, 
singers,  instrumentalists.  Their  figures  rushed  across  Claude's 
mind  with  a  vertiginous  rapidity.  Their  faces  flashed  by 
grimacing.  Their  hands  beckoned  him  on  in  a  mad  career. 
And  he  saw  the  huge  theater,  a  monster  of  masonry,  with  a 
terrific  maw  which  he — he  of  all  men! — was  expected  to  fill, 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        361 

a  maw  gaping  for  human  beings,  gaping  for  dollars.  What  a 
coldness  it  had  struck  into  him,  as  he  stood  for  the  first  time 
looking  into  its  dimness  as  into  the  dimness  of  some  gigantic 
cavern.  In  that  moment  he  had  realized,  or  had  at  least 
partially  realized,  the  meaning  of  a  tremendous  failure,  and 
how  far  the  circles  of  its  influence  radiate.  And  he  had  felt 
very  cold,  as  a  guilty  man  may  feel  who  hugs  his  secret.  And 
the  huge  theater  had  surely  leaned  over,  leaned  down,  filled 
suddenly  with  a  sinister  purpose,  to  crush  him  into  the  dust. 

"Claude!" 

"Here  I  am!" 

"What  a  time  you've  been!    We — are  you  very  tired?" 

"Not  a  bit.     Come  along!" 

They  went  out  into  the  corridor  lined  with  marble,  stepped 
into  a  lift,  shot  down,  and  passed  through  the  vestibule  to  the 
street  where  a  taxi-cab  was  waiting.  A  young  man  stood  on 
the  pavement,  and  while  Charmian  was  getting  in  he  spoke 
to  Claude. 

"Mr.  Claude  Heath,  I  believe?" 

"Yes." 

"I  represent — " 

"Very  sorry  I  can't  wait.    I  have  to  go  to  the  theater." 

He  sprang  in,  and  the  taxi  turned  to  the  right  into  Fifth 
Avenue,  and  rushed  toward  Central  Park.  A  mountain 
of  lights  towered  up  on  the  left  where  the  Plaza  invaded  the 
starless  sky.  The  dark  spaces  of  the  Park  showed  vaguely 
on  the  right,  as  the  cab  swung  round.  In  front  gleamed  the 
golden  and  sleepless  eyes  of  the  Broadway  district.  The 
sharp  frosty  air  quivered  with  a  thousand  noises.  Motors 
hurried  by  in  an  unending  procession,  little  gleaming  worlds, 
each  holding  its  group  of  strangers,  gazing,  gesticulating, 
laughing,  intent  on  some  unknown  errand.  The  pavements 
were  thronged  with  pedestrians,  muffled  to  the  ears  and 
walking  swiftly.  The  taxi-cab,  caught  in  the  maze  of  traffic, 
jerked  as  the  chauffeur  applied  the  brakes,  and  slowed  down 
almost  to  walking  pace.  Under  a  lamp  Claude  saw  a  colored 
woman  wearing  a  huge  pink  hat.  She  seemed  to  be  gazing 
at  him,  and  her  large  lips  parted  in  a  smile.  In  an  instant 
she  was  gone.  But  Claude  could  not  forget  her.  In  his  ex- 


362        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

citement  and  fatigue  he  thought  of  her  as  a  great  goblin 
woman,  and  her  smile  was  a  terrible  grin  of  bitter  sarcasm 
stretching  across  the  world.  Charmian  and  Alston  were 
talking  unweariedly.  Claude  did  not  hear  what  they  were 
saying.  He  saw  snowflakes  floating  down  between  the 
lights,  strangely  pure  and  remote,  lost  wanderers  from  some 
delicate  world  where  the  fragile  things  are  worshipped.  And, 
with  a  strange  emotion,  his  heart  turned  to  the  now  remote 
children  of  his  imagination,  those  children  with  whom  he  had 
sat  alone  by  his  wood  fire  on  lonely  evenings,  when  the  pale 
blue  of  the  flames  had  struck  on  his  eyes  like  the  soft  notes  of 
a  flute  on  his  ears,  those  children  with  whom  he  had  kept 
long  vigils  and  sometimes  seen  the  dawn.  How  far  they  had 
retreated  from  him,  as  if  they  thought  him  a  stern,  or  neglect- 
ful father!  He  shut  his  eyes,  and  seemed  to  see  once  more 
the  smile  of  the  goblin  woman,  and  then  the  fiery  gaze  of  Mrs. 
Mansfield. 

"How  could  she  say  it?    But  I  don't  know  that  I  mind!" 

"Minding  things  doesn't  help  any  in  a  place  like  New 
York." 

"But  will  they  believe  it?" 

"If  they  do  half  of  them  will  think  you  worth  while." 

"Yes,  but  the  other  half?" 

"As  long  as  you  get  there  it's  all  right." 

The  cab  stopped  at  the  stage  door  of  Crayford's  opera  house. 

As  they  went  in  two  or  three  journalists  spoke  to  them, 
asking  for  information  about  the  libretto.  Claude  hurried 
on  as  if  he  did  not  hear  them.  His  usual  almost  eager  amia- 
bility of  manner  with  strangers  had  deserted  him  this  even- 
ing. But  Charmian  and  Alston  Lake  spoke  to  the  pressmen, 
and  Alston's  whole-hearted  laugh  rang  out.  Claude  heard 
it  and  envied  Alston. 

From  a  room  on  the  right  of  the  entrance  a  very  dark  young 
man  came  carrying  some  letters. 

"More  letters!"  he  said  to  Claude,  with  a  smile. 

"Oh,  thank  you." 

"They're  all  on  the  stage.  The  locusts  will  be  real  fine 
when  they  fix  them  right.  We  have  folks  inquiring  about 
them  all  the  time.  Nothing  like  that  in  the  Sennier  opera." 


THE  WAY  OP  AMBITION        363 

He  smiled  again  with  pleasant  boyishness.  Claude  longed 
to  take  him  by  the  shoulders  and  say  to  him: 

''It  isn't  a  swarm  of  locusts  that  will  make  an  opera!" 
But  he  only  nodded  and  remarked: 

"All  the  better  for  us!" 

Then  hastily  he  opened  his  letters.  Three  were  from  auto- 
graph hunters,  and  he  thrust  them  into  the  pocket  of  his  coat. 
The  fourth  was  from  Armand  Gillier.  When  Claude  saw  the 
name  of  his  collaborator  he  stood  still  and  read  the  note 
frowning. 

"Letters!  Always  letters!"  said  Charmian,  coming  up. 
"Anything  interesting,  Claudie?" 

"  Gillier  is  coming  out  after  all." 

"Armand  Gillier!" 

"Yes.  Or — he  arrived  to-day,  I  expect,  though  this  was 
posted  in  France.  What  day  does  the  Philadelphia — " 

"This  morning,"  said  Alston. 

"Then  he's  here." 

Charmian  looked  disgusted. 

"It's  bad  taste  on  his  part.  After  his  horrible  efforts  to 
ruin  the  opera  he  ought  to  have  kept  away." 

"What  does  it  matter?"  said  Claude. 

"He'll  be  interviewed  on  the  libretto,"  said  Alston.  "Gee 
knows  what  he'll  say,  the  beast!" 

"If  he  backs  up  Madame  Sennier  in  her  libelous  remarks 
it  will  be  proclaiming  that  he  can  be  bribed,"  exclaimed  Char- 
mian. 

"  I  suppose  he's  bound  to  throw  in  his  lot  with  us,"  added 
Alston,  as  they  came  into  the  huge  curving  corridor  which 
ran  behind  the  ground  tier  boxes. 

"How  dark  it  is!  Claudie,  give  me  your  hand.  It  slopes, 
doesn't  it?" 

"Yes.    The  entrance  is  just  here." 

"How  hot  your  hand  is!" 

"Here  we  are!"  said  Alston. 

He  pushed  a  swing  door,  and  they  came  into  the  theater. 
It  was  dimly  lighted,  and  over  the  rows  of  stalls  pale  coverings 
were  drawn.  The  hundreds  of  empty  boxes  gaped.  The 
distant  galleries  were  lost  in  the  darkness.  It  was  a  vast 


364        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

house,  and  the  faint  light  and  the  emptiness  of  it  made  it 
look  even  vaster  than  it  was. 

"The  maw,  and  I  am  to  fill  it!"  Claude  thought  again. 
And  he  was  conscious  of  unimportance^  He  even  felt  as  if  he 
had  never  composed  any  music,  as  if  he  knew  nothing  about 
composition,  had  no  talent  at  all.  It  seemed  to  him  incredible 
that,  because  of  him,  of  what  he  had  done,  great  sums  of 
money  were  being  spent,  small  armies  of  people  were  at  work, 
columns  upon  columns  were  being  written  in  myriads  of 
newspapers,  a  man  such  as  Crayford  was  putting  forth  all 
his  influence,  lavishing  all  his  powers  of  showman,  impresario, 
man  of  taste,  fighting  man.  He  remembered  the  night  when 
Sennier's  opera  was  produced,  and  it  seemed  to  him  impossible 
that  such  a  night  could  ever  come  to  him,  be  his  night.  He 
thought  of  it  somewhat  as  a  man  thinks  of  Death,  as  his 
neighbor's  visitant  not  as  his  own. 

"Chaw-lee/"  shouted  an  imperative  voice.  "Chaw-ley! 
Chaw-tee/" 

"Ah!"  cried  a  thin  voice  from  somewhere  behind  the  stage. 

"Get  down  that  light!  Give  us  your  ambers!  No,  not 
the  blues!  Your  ambers!  Where's  Jimber?  I  say,  where  is 
Jimber? 

Mr.  Mulworth,  the  stage  producer,  who  was  the  speaker, 
appeared  running  sidewise  down  an  uncovered  avenue  between 
two  rows  of  stalls  close  to  the  stage.  Although  a  large  man, 
he  proceeded  with  remarkable  rapidity.  Emerging  into  the 
open  he  came  upon  Claude. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Crayford  is  here.  He  wants  very  much  to  see 
you." 

"Where  is  he?" 

"Somewhere  behind.  I  think  he's  viewing  camels.  Can 
you  come  with  me?" 

"Of  course!" 

He  went  off  quickly  with  Mr.  Mulworth,  who  shouted: 

"I  say,  where  is  Jimber?"  to  some  unknown  personality 
as  he  ran  toward  a  door  which  gave  on  to  the  stage. 

"Let  us  go  and  sit  down  at  the  back  of  the  stalls,  Alston," 
said  Charmian.  "They  don't  seem  to  be  trying  the  locusts 
yet." 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        365 

"No.  There  are  always  delays.  The  patience  one  needs 
in  a  theater!  Talk  of  self-control!  Here,  I'll  pull  away  the — 
or  shall  we  go  to  that  box?" 

"Yes.    I'll  get  on  this  chair.    Help  me!    That's  it." 

They  sat  down  in  a  dark  box  at  the  back  of  the  stalls.  Far 
off,  across  a  huge  space,  they  saw  the  immense  stage,  lit  up 
now  by  an  amber  glow  which  came  not  from  the  footlights  but 
from  above.  The  stage  was  set  with  a  scene  representing  an 
oasis  in  the  desert  with  yellow  sand  in  the  distance.  Among 
some  tufted  palms  stood  three  or  four  stage  hands,  pale,  dusty, 
in  shirt  sleeves.  At  the  extreme  back  of  the  scene,  against 
the  horizon,  Mr.  Mulworth  crossed,  with  a  thick-set,  lantern- 
jawed,  and  very  bald  man,  who  was  probably  Jimber.  Claude 
followed  two  or  three  yards  behind  them,  and  disappeared. 
His  face  looked  ghastly  under  the  stream  of  amber  light. 

"It's  dreadful  to  see  people  on  the  stage  not  made  up!"  said 
Charmian.  "They  all  look  so  corpse-like.  O  Alston,  are 
we  going  to  have  a  success?" 

"What!    You  beginning  to  doubt!" 

"  No,  no.  But  when  I  see  this  huge  dark  theater  I  can't 
help  thinking,  '  Shall  we  fill  it? '  What  a  fight  art  is!  I  never 
realized  till  now  that  we  are  on  a  battlefield.  Alston,  I  feel  I 
would  almost  rather  die  than  fail." 

"Fail!    But—" 

"Or  quite  rather  die." 

"In  any  case  it  couldn't  be  your  failure." 

She  turned  and  looked  at  him  in  the  heavy  dimness. 

"Couldn't  it?" 

"You  didn't  write  the  libretto.  You  didn't  compose  the 
music." 

"And  yet,"  she  said,  in  a  low  tense  voice,  "it  would  be  my 
failure  if  the  opera  failed,  because  but  for  me  it  never  would 
have  been  written,  never  have  been  produced  out  here.  Alston, 
it's  a  great  responsibility.  And  I  never  really  understood 
how  great  till  I  saw  Claude  go  across  the  stage  just  now.  He 
looked  so — he  looked — " 

She  broke  off. 

"Whatever  is  it,  Mrs.  Charmian?" 

"He  looked  like  a  victim,  I  thought." 


366        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

"Everyone  does  in  that  light  unless — there's  Crayford!" 

At  this  moment  Mr.  Crayford  came  upon  the  stage  from  the 
side  on  which  Claude  had  just  vanished.  He  had  a  soft  hat 
on  the  back  of  his  head,  and  a  cigar  in  his  mouth. 

"He  doesn't!"  whispered  Charmian. 

"Now  go  ahead!"  roared  Crayford.  "Work  your  motors 
and  let's  see!" 

There  was  a  sound  like  a  rushing  mighty  wind. 

At  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  Crayford  was  still  smoking, 
still  watching,  still  shouting.  Charmian  and  Alston  were 
still  in  the  darkness  of  the  box,  gazing,  listening,  sometimes 
talking.  They  had  not  seen  Claude  again.  If  he  came  into 
the  front  of  the  theater  they  meant  to  call  him.  But  he  did 
not  come.  The  hours  had  flown,  and  now,  when  Alston 
looked  at  his  watch  and  told  Charmian  the  time,  she  could 
scarcely  believe  him. 

"Where  can  Claude  be?" 

"I'll  go  behind." 

"Jimber!"   roared   Mr.    Crayford.     "Where  is  Jimber?" 

Mr.  Mulworth,  who  looked  now  as  if  he  had  lain  awake  in 
his  clothes  for  more  nights  than  he  cared  to  remember,  rushed 
upon  the  stage  almost  fanatically. 

"The  locusts  are  all  in  one  corner!"  shouted  Crayford. 
"What's  the  use  of  that?  They  must  spread." 

"Spread  your  locusts!"  bawled  Mr.  Mulworth. 

He  lifted  both  his  arms  in  a  semaphore  movement,  which  he 
continued  until  it  seemed  as  if  his  physical  mechanism  had 
escaped  from  the  control  of  his  brain. 

"Spread  your  locusts,  Jimber!"  he  wailed.  "Spread! 
Spread!  I  tell  you — spread  your  locusts!" 

He  vanished,  always  moving  his  arms.  His  voice  died  away 
in  the  further  regions. 

Charmian  was  alone.  She  had  nodded  in  reply  to  Alston's 
remark.  To-night  she  felt  rather  anxious  about  Claude. 
She  could  not  entirely  rid  her  mind  of  the  remembrance  of 
him  crossing  under  the  light,  looking  unnatural,  ghastly, 
like  a  persecuted  man.  And  now  that  she  was  alone  she  felt 
as  if  she  were  haunted.  Eager  to  be  reassured,  she  fixed  her 
eyes  on  the  keen  figure,  the  resolute  face,  of  Mr.  Crayford. 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        367 

The  power  of  work  in  Americans  was  almost  astounding,  she 
thought.  All  the  men  with  whom  she  and  Claude  had  had 
anything  to  do  seemed  to  be  working  all  the  time,  unresting  as 
waves  driven  by  a  determined  wind.  Keenness!  That  was 
the  characteristic  of  this  marvellous  city,  this  marvellous  land. 
And  it  had  acted  upon  her  almost  like  electricity.  She  had 
felt  charged  with  it. 

It  would  be  terrible  to  fail  before  a  nation  that  worshipped 
success,  that  looked  for  it  with  resolute  piercing  eyes. 

And  she  recalled  her  arrival  with  Claude  in  the  cold  light 
of  early  morning,  her  first  sensation  of  enchantment  when  a 
pressman,  with  searching  eyes  and  a  firm  mouth  turned  down 
at  the  corners,  had  come  up  to  interview  her.  At  that  moment 
she  had  felt  that  she  was  leaving  thedulness  of  the  unknown  life 
behind  her  for  ever.  It  was  no  doubt  a  terribly  vulgar  feeling. 
She  had  been  uneasily  conscious  of  that.  But,  nevertheless, 
it  had  grown  within  her,  fostered  by  events.  For  Crayford's 
publicity  agent  had  been  masterly  in  his  efforts.  Charmian 
and  Claude  had  been  snapshotted  on  the  deck  of  the  ship  by 
a  little  army  of  journalists.  They  had  been  snapshotted  again 
on  the  gangplank.  In  the  docks  they  had  been  interviewed 
by  more  than  a  dozen  people.  A  little  later,  in  the  afternoon 
of  the  same  day,  they  had  held  a  reception  of  pressmen  in 
their  sitting-room  at  the  St.  Regis  Hotel.  Charmian  thought 
of  these  men  now  as  she  waited  for  Alston's  return. 

They  had  been  introduced  by  Mr.  Cane,  Crayford's  public- 
ity agent,  and  had  arrived  about  three  o'clock.  All  of  them 
were,  or  looked  as  if  they  were,  young  men,  smart  and  alert,  men 
who  meant  something.  And  they  had  all  been  polite  and 
charming.  They  had  "sat  around"  attentively,  and  had  put 
their  questions  without  brutality.  They  had  seemed  inter- 
ested, sympathetic,  as  if  they  really  cared  about  Claude's 
talent  and  the  opera.  His  song,  Wild  Heart  oj  Youth,  had 
been  touched  upon,  and  a  tall  young  man,  with  a  pale  face  and 
anxious  eyes,  had  told  Charmian  that  he  loved  it.  Then  they 
had  discussed  music.  Claude  at  first  had  seemed  uncomfort- 
able, almost  too  modest,  Charmian  had  thought.  But  the 
pressmen  had  been  so  agreeable,  so  unself -conscious,  that 
his  discomfort  had  worn  off.  His  natural  inclination  to  please, 


368        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

to  give  people  what  they  seemed  to  expect  of  him,  had  come 
to  his  rescue.  He  had  been  vivacious  and  even  charming. 
But  when  the  pressmen  had  gone  he  had  said  to  Charmian: 

"Pleasant  fellows,  weren't  they?  But  their  eyes  ask  one 
for  success.  Till  the  opera  is  out  I  shall  see  those  eyes,  asking, 
always  asking!" 

And  he  had  gone  out  of  the  room  with  a  gesture  suggestive 
of  anxiety,  almost  of  fear. 

Charmian  saw  those  eyes  now  as  she  sat  in  the  box.  What 
Claude  had  said  was  true.  Beneath  the  sympathy,  the  charm, 
the  frankness,  the  readiness  in  welcome  of  these  Americans, 
there  was  a  silent  and  strong  demand — the  demand  of  a  power- 
ful, vital  country. 

"We  are  here  to  make  you  known  over  immense  distances  to 
thousands  of  people!"  the  eyes  of  the  pressmen  had  seemed  to 
say.  "But — produce  the  goods!"  In  other  words,  "Be  a 
success!" 

"Be  a  success!  Be  a  success!"  It  seemed  to  Charmian 
as  if  all  America  were  saying  that  in  her  ears  unceasingly. 
"  We  will  be  kind  to  you.  We  will  shower  good- will  upon  you. 
We  have  hospitable  hands,  keen  brains,  warm  hearts  at  your 
service.  We  only  ask  to  give  of  our  best  to  you.  But — be  a 
success!  Be  a  success!" 

And  the  voice  grew  so  strong  that  at  last  it  seemed  almost 
stern,  almost  fierce  in  -her  ears.  At  last  it  seemed  as  if  peril 
would  attend  upon  non-compliance  with  its  demand. 

She  thought  of  Claude  crossing  the  stage  under  the  amber 
light,  she  looked  into  the  vast  dim  theater  with  its  thousands 
of  empty  seats,  and  excitement  and  fear  burned  in  her,  mingled 
together.  Then  something  determined  in  her,  the  thing 
perhaps  which  had  enabled  her  to  take  Claude  for  her  husband, 
and  later  to  play  a  part  in  his  art  life,  rose  up  and  drove  out 
the  fear.  "It  is  fear  which  saps  the  will,  fear  which  disin- 
tegrates, fear  which  calls  to  failure."  She  was  able  to  say  that 
to  herself  and  to  cast  fear  away.  And  her  mind  repeated  the 
words  she  had  often  heard  Crayford  utter,  "It's  up  to  us 
now  to  bring  the  thing  off  and  we've  just  got  to  bring  it  off !" 

"No,  no,  I  tell  you!  They're  too  much  on  one  side  of  the 
scene  still!  Who  in  thunder  ever  saw  locusts  swarming  in  a 


comer  when  they've  got  the  whole  desert  to  spread  themselves 
in?  It  aren't  their  nature.  What?  Well,  then,  you  must 
alter  the  position  of  your  motors.  Where  is  Jimber?" 

And  Mr.  Crayford  strode  behind  the  scenes. 

Half -past  two  in  the  morning!  What  could  Claude  be 
doing?  Was  Alston  never  coming  back?  Charmian  suddenly 
began  to  feel  tired  and  cold.  She  buttoned  her  sealskin  coat 
up  to  her  throat.  For  a  moment  there  was  no  one  on  the  stage. 
From  behind  the  scenes  came  no  longer  the  clever  imitation 
of  a  roaring  wind.  An  abrupt  inaction,  that  was  like  desola- 
tion, made  the  great  house  seem  oddly  vacant.  She  sat  staring 
rather  vaguely  at  the  palms  and  the  yellow  sands. 

After  she  had  sat  thus  for  perhaps  some  five  minutes  she 
saw  Claude  walk  hastily  on  to  the  stage.  He  had  a  large 
black  note-book  and  a  pencil  in  his  hand,  and  seemed  in  search 
of  someone.  Crayford  came  on  brusquely  from  the  opposite 
side  of  the  scene  and  met  him.  They  began  to  confer  together. 

The  box  door  behind  Charmian  was  opened  and  Alston  came 
in. 

"  Old  Claude's  too  busy  to  come.  He  wants  me  to  take  you 
home." 

"What  has  he  been  doing  all  this  time?" 

"No  end  of  things.  It's  just  as  I  said.  Crayford's  deter- 
mined to  be  first  in  the  field.  This  move  of  the  Metropolitan 
has  put  him  on  the  run,  and  he'll  keep  everyone  in  the  theater 
running  till  the  opera's  out.  Claude's  been  with  the  pressmen 
behind,  and  having  a  hairy-teary  heart  to  heart  with  Enid 
Mardon.  Come,  Mrs.  Charmian!" 

"But  I  don't  like  to  leave  Claude." 

"There's  nothing  for  us  to  do,  and  he'll  follow  us  as  soon 
as  ever  he  can.  I'll  just  leave  you  at  the  hotel." 

"What  was  the  matter  with  Miss  Mardon?"  Charmian 
asked  anxiously,  as  she  got  up  to  go. 

"Oh,  everything!  She  was  in  one  of  her  devil's  moods 
to-night;  wanted  everything  altered.  She's  a  great  artist, 
but  as  destructive  as  a  monkey.  She  must  pull  everything 
to  pieces  as  a  beginning.  So  she's  pulling  her  part  to  pieces 
now." 

"How  did  Claude  take  it?" 

24 


370        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

"Very  quietly.  Tell  the  truth  I  think  he's  a  bit  tired  out 
to-night." 

"Alston,"  Charmian  said,  stopping  in  the  corridor,  "I 
won't  go  home  without  him.  No,  I  won't.  We  must  stick 
to  Claude,  back  him  up  till  the  end.  Take  me  into  the  stalls. 
I'm  going  to  sit  where  he  can  see  us." 

"  He'll  send  us  away." 

"Oh,  no,  he  won't!"  she  replied,  with  determination. 

The  Madame  Sennier  spirit  was  upon  her  in  full  force. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

IT  was  nearly  four  o'clock  when  they  left  the  theater.  Jacob 
Crayf  ord,  Mr.  Mulworth  and  Jimber  were  still  at  work 
when  they  came  out  of  the  stage  door  into  the  cold  black- 
ness of  the  night  and  got  into  the  taxi-cab.  Alston  said  he 
would  drive  with  them  to  the  hotel  and  take  the  cab  on  to 
his  rooms  in  Madison  Avenue.  But  when  they  reached  the 
hotel  Claude  asked  him  to  come  in. 

"I  can't  go  to  bed,"  he  said. 

"But,  Claudie,  it's  past  four,"  said  Charmian. 

"I  know.  But  after  all  this  excitement  sleep  would  be  out 
of  the  question.  Come  in,  Alston,  we'll  have  something  to 
eat,  smoke  a  cigar,  and  try  to  quiet  down." 

"Right  you  are!    I  feel  as  lively  as  anything." 

"It  would  be  rather  fun,"  said  Charmian.  "And  I'm  fear- 
fully hungry." 

At  supper  they  were  all  unusually  talkative,  unusually, 
excitedly,  intimate.  Instead  of  "quieting  down"  Claude 
became  almost  feverishly  vivacious.  Although  his  cheeks 
were  pale,  and  under  his  eyes  there  were  dark  shadows,  he 
seemed  to  have  got  rid  of  all  his  fatigue. 

"  The  climate  here  carries  one  on  marvellously,"  he  exclaimed. 
"When  I  th,nk  that  I  wanted  to  go  to  bed  just  before  you 
came,  Alston!" 

He  threw  out  his  hand  with  a  laugh.  Then,  picking  up  a 
glass  of  champagne,  he  added: 

"I  say,  let  us  make  a  bargain!" 

"What  is  it,  old  chap?" 

"Let  us — just  us  three — have  supper  together  after  the 
first  performance.  I  couldn't  stand  a  supper-party  with  a 
lot  of  semi-strangers." 

"  I'll  come!    Drink  to  that  night !" 

They  drank. 

Cigars  were  lit  and  talk  flooded  the  warm  red  room. 

371 


372       THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

Words  rushed  to  the  lips  of  them  all.  Charmian  lay  back  on 
the  sofa,  with  big  cushions  piled  under  her  head,  and  Claude, 
sometimes  walking  about  the  room,  told  them  the  history  of 
the  night  in  the  theater.  They  interrupted,  put  questions, 
made  comments,  protested,  argued,  encouraged,  exclaimed. 

Mr.  Cane  had  brought  pressman  after  pressman  to  interview 
Claude  on  the  libretto  scandal,  as  they  called  it.  It  seemed 
that  Madame  Sennier  had  made  her  libelous  statement  in 
a  violent  fit  of  temper,  brought  on  by  a  bad  rehearsal  at  the 
Metropolitan  Opera  House.  Annie  Meredith,  who  was  to 
sing  the  big  r61e  in  Sennier's  new  opera,  and  who  was  much 
greater  as  an  actress  than  as  a  vocalist,  had  complained 
of  the  weakness  of  the  libretto,  and  had  attacked  Madame 
Sennier  for  having  made  Jacques  set  it.  Thereupon  the  great 
Henriette  had  lost  all  control  of  her  powerful  temperament. 
The  secret  bitterness  engendered  in  her  by  her  failure  to 
capture  the  libretto  of  Gillier  had  found  vent  in  the  outburst 
which,  no  doubt  with  plenty  of  amplifications,  had  got  into 
the  evening  papers.  The  management  at  first  had  wished  to 
attempt  the  impossible,  to  try  to  muzzle  the  pressmen.  But 
their  publicity  agent  knew  better.  Madame  Sennier  had  been 
carried  by  temper  into  stupidity.  She  had  made  a  false  move. 
The  only  thing  to  do  now  was  to  make  a  sensation  of  it. 

As  Claude  told  of  the  pressmen's  questions  his  mind  burned 
with  excitement,  and  a  recklessness,  such  as  he  had  never  felt 
before,  invaded  him.  He  had  been  indignant,  had  even  felt 
a  sort  of  shame,  when  he  was  asked  whether  he  had  been  "  cute" 
in  the  libretto  matter,  whether  he  had  stolen  a  march  on  his 
rival.  Crayford's  treatment  of  the  affair  had  disgusted  him. 
For  Crayford,  with  his  sharp  eye  to  business,  had  seen  at  once 
that  their  "game"  was,  of  course  with  all  delicacy,  all  sub- 
tlety, to  accept  the  imputation  of  shrewdness.  The  innocent 
11  stunt"  was  "no  good  to  anyone"  in  his  opinion.  And  he 
had  not  scrupled  to  say  so  to  Claude.  There  had  been  an 
argument — the  theater  is  the  Temple  of  Argument — and 
Claude  had  heard  himself  called  a  "lobster,"  but  had  stuck 
to  his  determination  to  use  truth  as  a  weapon  in  his  defense. 
But  now,  as  he  told  all  this,  he  felt  that  he  did  not  care  either 
way.  What  did  it  matter  if  dishonorable  conduct,  if  every 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        373 

deadly  sin,  were  imputed  to  him  out  here  so  long  as  he  "made 
good"  in  the  end  with  the  work  of  his  brain,  the  work  which 
had  led  him  to  Africa  and  across  the  Atlantic?  What  did  it 
matter  if  the  work  were  a  spurious  thing,  a  pasticcio,  a  poor 
victim  which  had  been  pulled  this  way  and  that,  changed,  cut, 
added  to?  What  did  it  matter  if  the  locusts  swarmed  over  it — 
so  long  as  it  was  a  success?  The  blatant  thing — everyone, 
every  circumstance,  was  urging  Claude  to  snatch  at  it;  and 
in  this  early  hour  of  the  winter  morning,  excited  by  the  intensity 
of  the  strain  he  was  undergoing,  by  the  pull  on  his  body,  but 
far  more  by  the  pull  on  his  soul,  he  came  to  a  sudden  and  crude 
decision;  at  all  costs  the  blatant  thing  should  be  his,  the  popu- 
lar triumph,  the  success,  if  not  of  the  high-bred  merit,  then 
of  sheer  spectacular  sensation.  There  is  an  intimate  success 
that  seems  to  be  of  the  soul,  and  there  is  another,  reverber- 
ating, resounding,  like  the  clashing  of  brass  instruments  beaten 
together.  Claude  seemed  to  hear  them  at  this  moment  as 
he  talked  with  ever-growing  excitement. 

One  of  the  pressmen  had  mentioned  Gillier,  who  had  arrived 
and  been  interviewed  at  the  docks.  He  had  evidently  been 
delighted  to  find  his  work  a  "storm  center,"  but  had  declined 
to  commit  himself  to  any  direct  statement  of  fact.  The 
impression  left  on  the  pressmen  by  him,  however,  had  been 
that  a  fight  had  raged  for  the  possession  of  his  libretto,  which 
must  have  been  won  by  the  Heaths  since  Claude  Heath  had 
set  it  to  music.  Or  had  the  fight  really  been  between  Joseph 
Crayford  and  the  management  of  the  Metropolitan  Opera 
House?  Gillier  had  finally  remarked,  " I  must  leave  it  to  you, 
messieurs.  All  that  matters  to  me  is  that  my  poor  work 
should  be  helped  to  success  by  music  and  scenery,  acting  and 
singing.  I  am  not  responsible  for  what  Madame  Sennier,  or 
anyone  else,  says  to  you." 

"Then  what  do  they  really  believe?"  exclaimed  Charmian, 
raising  herself  up  on  the  cushions,  and  resting  one  flushed 
cheek  on  her  hand. 

"The  worst,  no  doubt!"  said  Alston. 

"What  does  it  matter?"  said  Claude. 

Quickly  he  took  out  of  a  box,  clipped,  lit,  and  began  to  smoke 
a  fresh  cigar. 


374        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

"  What  does  anything  matter  so  long  as  we  have  a  success, 
a  big,  resounding  success?" 

Charmian  and  Alston  exchanged  glances,  half  astonished, 
half  congratulatory. 

"I  never  realized  till  I  came  here,"  Claude  continued,  "the 
necessity  of  success  to  one  who  wants  to  continue  doing  good 
work.  It  is  like  the  breaths  of  air  drawn  into  his  lungs  by  the 
swimmer  in  a  race,  who,  to  get  pace,  keeps  his  head  low,  his 
mouth  under  water  half  the  time.  I've  simply  got  to  win 
this  race.  And  if  anything  helps,  even  lies  from  Madame 
Sennier,  and  the  sly  deceit  of  Gillier,  I  mean  to  welcome  it. 
That's  the  only  thing  to  do.  Crayford  is  right.  I  didn't  see 
it  at  first,  but  I  see  it  now.  It's  no  earthly  use  the  artist  trying 
to  keep  himself  and  his  talent  in  cotton  wool  in  these  days. 
If  you've  got  anything  to  give  the  public  it  doesn't  do  to  be 
sensitive  about  what  people  say  and  think.  I  had  a  lecture 
to-night  from  Crayford  on  the  uses  of  advertisement  which 
has  quite  enlightened  me." 

"What  did  he  say?"  interjected  Alston. 

"  '  My  boy,  if  I  were  producing  some  goods,  and  it  would 
help  any  to  let  them  think  I'd  killed  my  mother,  and  robbed 
my  father  of  his  last  nickel,  d'you  think  I'd  put  them  right, 
switch  them  on  to  the  truth?  Not  at  all!  I'd  get  them  all 
around  me,  and  I'd  say,  "See  here,  boys,  mother's  gone  to 
glory,  and  father's  in  the  poorhouse,  but  it  isn't  up  to  me  to 
say  why.  That's  my  affair.  I  know  I  can  rely  on  you  all  to 
— keep  my  name  before  the  public."  '  " 

Charmian  and  Alston  broke  into  laughter,  but  Claude's 
face  continued  to  look  grave  and  excited. 

"The  fact  of  the  matter  is  that  the  work  has  got  to  come 
before  the  man,"  he  said.  "And  now  we've  all  got  so  far  in 
this  affair  nothing  must  be  allowed  to  keep  us  back  from 
success.  Let  the  papers  say  whatever  they  like  so  long  as 
they  talk  about  us.  Let  Madame  Sennier  rail  and  sneer  as 
much  as  she  chooses.  It  will  be  all  to  the  good.  Crayford 
told  me  so  to-night.  He  said,  'My  boy,  it  shows  they're 
funky.  They  think  our  combination  may  be  stronger  than 
theirs.'  It  seems  Sennier's  new  libretto  has  come  out  quite 
dreadfully  at  rehearsal,  and  they've  been  trying  to  re-write 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        375 

a  lot  of  it  and  change  situations.  Now,  we  got  nearly  every- 
thing cut  and  dried  at  Djenan-el-Maqui.  By  Jove,  how  I 
did  work  there!  D'you  remember  old  Jernington's  visit, 
Charmian?  He  believed  in  the  opera,  didn't  he?" 

"I  should  think  so!"  she  cried.  "Why,  he  positively  raved 
about  it.  And  he's  not  an  amateur.  He  only  cares  for  the 
music — and  he's  a  man  who  knows." 

"Yes,  he  does  know.  What  a  change  in  our  lives,  eh, 
Charmian,  if  we  bring  off  a  big  success!  And  you'll  be  in  it 
Alston." 

"Rather!    The  coming  baritone!" 

"What  a  change!" 

His  eyes  shone  with  excitement. 

"  I  used  to  be  almost  afraid  of  celebrity,  I  think.  But  now 
I  want  it,  I  need  it.  America  has  made  me  need  it." 

"This  is  the  country  that  wakes  people  up,"  said  Alston. 

"It  drives  me  almost  mad!"  cried  Claude,  with  sudden 
violence. 

"Claudie!"  exclaimed  Charmian. 

"It  does!  There's  something  here  that  pumps  nervous 
energy  into  one  until  one's  body  and  mind  seem  to  be  swirling 
in  a  mill  race.  When  I  think  of  my  life  in  Mullion  House  and 
my  life  here!" 

Charmian,  with  a  quick  movement,  sat  upright  on  the  sofa. 

"Then  you  do  realize — "  she  began,  almost  excitedly. 
She  paused,  gazing  at  Claude. 

The  two  men  looked  at  her. 

"What  is  it?"  Claude  said  at  length,  as  she  remained 
silent. 

"You  do  realize  that  I  did  see  something  for  you  that  you 
hadn't  seen  for  yourself,  when  you  shut  yourself  and  your 
talent  in,  when  you  wouldn't  look  at,  wouldn't  touch  the 
world?" 

"Of  course.  I  hadn't  courage  then.  I  dreaded  contact 
with  life.  Now  I  defy  life  to  get  the  better  of  me.  I  know  it, 
and  I'm  beginning  to  know  how  to  deal  with  it.  I  say,  let 
us  plan  out  our  campaign  if  Madame  Sennier  persists  in  her 
accusations." 

He  sat  down  between  them. 


376        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

"But  first  tell  us  exactly  what  you  gave  out  to  the  press- 
men to-night,"  said  Alston. 

They  talked  till  the  dawn  crept  along  the  sky. 

When  at  last  Alston  got  up  to  go,  Claude  said: 

"If  three  strong  wills  are  worth  anything  we  must  suc- 
ceed." 

"And  we've  got  Crayford's  back  of  ours,"  said  Alston, 
putting  his  arms  behind  him  into  the  sleeves  of  his  coat. 
"Good-morning!  I'm  really  going." 

And  he  went. 

Charmian  had  got  up  from  her  sofa,  and  was  standing  by 
the  writing-table,  which  was  in  an  angle  of  the  room  on  the 
right  of  the  window.  As  Alston  went  out,  her  eyes  fell  on  an 
envelope  lying  by  itself  a  little  apart  from  the  letters  with 
which  the  table  was  strewn.  Scarcely  thinking  about  what 
she  was  doing  she  stretched  out  her  hand.  Her  intention 
was  to  put  the  envelope  with  its  fellows.  But  when  she  took 
it  up  she  saw  that  it  had  not  been  opened  and  contained  a 
letter,  or  note,  addressed  to  Claude. 

"Why,  here's  a  letter  for  you,  Claudie!"  she  said,  giving  it 
to  him. 

"Is  there?    Another  autograph  hunter,  I  suppose." 

Without  glancing  at  the  writing  he  tore  the  envelope, 
took  out  a  letter,  and  began  to  read  it. 

"It's  from  Mrs.  Shiffney!"  he  said.  "She  arrived  to-day 
on  the  same  ship  as  Gillier." 

"I  knew  she  would  come!"  cried  Charmian.  "Though 
they  all  pretended  she  was  going  to  winter  at  Cap  Martin." 

"And  she's  brought  Susan  Fleet  with  her." 

"Susan!" 

"But  read  what  she  says.  It  seems  to  have  all  been  quite 
unexpected,  a  sudden  caprice." 

"You  poor  thing!"  said  Charmian,  looking  at  him  with 
pitiful  eyes.  "When  will  you  begin  to  understand?" 

"What?" 

"Us." 

Claude  sent  a  glance  so  keen  that  it  was  almost  like  a  dart 
at  Charmian.  But  she  did  not  see  it  for  she  was  reading  the 
letter. 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        377 

"  THE  RITZ-CARLTON  HOTEL, 

Friday. 

"DEAR  MR.  HEATH, — I've  just  arrived  with  Susan  Fleet 
on  the  Philadelphia.  I  heard  such  reports  of  the  excitement 
over  your  opera  out  here  that  I  suddenly  felt  I  must  run  over. 
After  all  you  told  me  about  it  at  Constantine  I'm  naturally 
interested.  Do  be  nice  and  let  me  into  a  rehearsal.  I  never 
take  sides  in  questions  of  art,  and  though  of  course  I'm  a 
friend  of  the  Senniers,  I'm  really  praying  for  you  to  have  a 
triumph.  Surely  the  sky  has  room  for  two  stars.  What 
nonsense  all  this  Press  got-up  rivalry  is.  Don't  believe  a  word 
you  see  in  the  papers  about  Henriette  and  your  libretto.  She 
knows  nothing  whatever  about  it,  of  course.  Such  rubbish! 
Susan  is  pining  to  see  her  beloved  Charmian.  Can't  you  both 
lunch  with  us  at  Sherry's  to-morrow  at  one  o'clock?  Love 
to  Charmian. — Yours  very  sincerely, 

ADELAIDE  SHIFFNEY." 

"Well?"  said  Claude,  as  Charmian  sat  without  speaking, 
after  she  had  finished  the  letter.  "Shall  we  go  to  Sherry's 
to-morrow?" 

He  spoke  as  if  he  were  testing  her,  but  she  did  not  seem  to 
notice  it. 

"Yes,  Claudie,  I  think  we  will." 

She  looked  at  him. 

"What  are  you  thinking?"  she  asked  quickly. 

"Do  you  still  believe  Mrs.  Shiffney  tricked  me  at 
Constantine?" 

"I  know  she  did." 

"  And  yet— ' 

She  interrupted  him. 

"We  are  in  the  arena!" 

"Ah— I  understand." 

"If  we  go  to  Sherry's,  and  Mrs.  Shiffney  speaks  about 
coming  to  a  rehearsal,  what  do  you  mean  to  do?" 

"What  do  you  think  about  it?" 

"Of  course  she  only  wants  to  come  in  the  hope  of  being 
able  to  carry  a  bad  report  to  the  Senniers." 

Claude  was  silent  for  a  moment.    Then  he  said: 


378        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

"That  may  be.     But — we  are  in  the  arena." 

"What  is  it?" 

"You  dislike  Mrs.  Shiffney,  you  distrust  her,  but  you  do 
think  she  has  taste,  judgment,  don't  you?" 

"Yes — some." 

"A  great  deal?" 

"When  she  isn't  biased  by  personal  feeling.  But  she  is 
biased  against  you." 

Claude's  eyes  had  become  piercing. 

"I  think,"  he  said,  "that  if  I  were  with  Mrs.  Shiffney  at  a 
rehearsal  I  should  divine  her  real,  her  honest  opinion,  the 
opinion  one  has  of  a  thing  whether  one  wishes  to  have  it  or 
not.  If  she  were  to  admire  the  opera — "  He  paused.  His 
face  looked  self-conscious. 

"Yes?" 

"I  only  mean  that  I  think  it  might  be  the  verdict  in 
advance." 

"I  see,"  she  said  slowly.     "Yes,  I  see." 

She  got  up. 

"  We  simply  must  go  to  bed." 

"  Come  along  then.  But  I  feel  as  if  I  should  never  want  to 
sleep  again." 

"We  must  sleep.  The  verdict  in  advance — yes,  I  see. 
But  Adelaide  might  make  a  mistake." 

"She  really  has  a  flair." 

"I  know.    Oh,  Claudie,  the  verdict!" 

They  were  now  in  their  bedroom.  Charmian  sighed  and 
put  her  arms  round  his  neck. 

"The  verdict!"  she  breathed  against  his  cheek  softly. 

He  felt  moisture  on  his  cheek.  She  had  pressed  wet  eyes 
against  it. 

"  Charmian,  what  is  it?    Why—" 

"Hush!  Just  put  your  arms  round  me  for  a  minute — 
yes,  like  that!  Claudie,  I  want  you  to  win,  I  want  you  to 
win.  Oh,  not  altogether  selfishly!  I — I  am  an  egoist,  I  sup- 
pose. I  do  care  for  my  husband  to  be  a  success.  But  there's 
more  than  that.  Yes,  yes,  there  is!" 

She  held  him,  with  passion,  and  suddenly  kissed  his  eyes. 
She  was  crying  quite  openly  now,  but  not  unhappily. 


'"CLAUDIK,  I  WANT  YOU  TO  WIN,  I  WANT  YOU  TO  WIN  i  "'- 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        379 

"There's  something  in  you  far,  far  down,  that  I  love," 
she  whispered.  "I  am  not  always  conscious  of  it,  but  I  am 
now.  It  called  me  to  you,  I  believe,  at  the  very  first.  And 
I  want  that  to  win,  I  want  that  to  win!" 

Claude's  face  had  become  set.  He  bent  over  Charmian. 
For  a  moment  he  was  on  the  verge  of  a  strange  confession. 
But  something  that  still  had  great  power  held  him  back  from 
it.  And  he  only  said: 

"You  have  worked  hard  for  me.  If  we  do  win  it  will  be 
your  victory." 

"And  if  we  lose?"  she  whispered. 

"Charmian — "  he  kissed  her.     "We  must  try  to  sleep." 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

ON  a  night  of  unnatural  excitement  Claude  had  come  to  a 
crude  resolution.  He  kept  to  it,  at  first  only  by  a  strong 
effort,  during  the  days  and  the  nights  which  followed, 
calling  upon  his  will  with  a  recklessness  he  had  never  known 
before,  a  recklessness  which  made  him  sometimes  feel  hard  and 
almost  brutal.  He  was  "out  for"  success  on  the  large  scale, 
and  he  was  now  fiercely  determined  to  win  it.  Within  him  the 
real  man  seemed  to  recede  like  a  thing  sensitive  seeking  a  hiding- 
place.  Sometimes,  during  these  strange  and  crowded  days  and 
nights,  he  felt  as  if  he  were  losing  himself  in  the  turmoil  around 
him  and  within  him.  And  the  wish  came  to  him  to  lose  him- 
self, and  to  have  done  for  ever  with  that  self  which  once  he  had 
cherished,  but  which  was  surely  of  no  use,  of  no  value  at  all,  in 
the  violent  blustering  world. 

Now  and  then  he  saw  the  pale  shining  of  the  lamp  in  the 
quiet  studio,  where  he  had  dwelt  with  the  dear  children  of  his 
imagination;  now  and  then  he  listened,  and  seemed  to  hear 
the  silence  there.  Then  the  crowd  closed  about  him,  the  noises 
of  life  rushed  upon  him,  and  the  Claude  Heath  of  those  far-off 
days  seemed  to  pass  by  him  fantastically  on  the  way  to  eternal 
darkness.  And,  using  his  will  with  fury,  he  cried  out  to  the 
fugitive,  "Go!  Go!"  as  to  something  shameful  that  must  not 
be  seen. 

Always  he  was  suffering,  as  a  man  only  suffers  when  he 
tries  to  do  violence  to  himself,  when  he  treats  himself  as  an 
enemy.  But  when  he  had  time  he  strove  to  sneer  at  his  own 
suffering.  Coolness,  hardness,  audacity,  these  were  the 
qualities  needed  in  life  as  he  knew  it  now;  swiftness  not 
sensitiveness,  boldness  not  delicacy.  The  world  was  not  gentle 
enough  for  the  trembling  qualities  which  vibrate  at  every  touch 
of  emotion,  giving  out  subtle  music.  And  he  would  nevermore 
wish  it  gentle.  Things  as  they  are!  Fall  down  and  worship 

380 


them!  Accommodate  yourself  to  them  lest  you  be  the  last 
of  fools! 

Claude  acted,  and  carried  on  by  excitement,  he  acted  well. 
He  was  helped  by  his  natural  inclination  to  meet  people  half- 
way when  he  had  to  meet  them.  And  he  was  helped,  too,  by 
the  cordiality,  the  quickness  of  response,  in  those  about  him. 
Charmian  did  her  part  with  an  energy  and  brilliance  to  which 
the  apparent  change  in  him  gave  an  impetus.  Hitherto  she 
had  tried  to  excite  in  Claude  the  worldly  qualities  which  she 
supposed  to  make  for  success.  Now  Claude  excited  them  in 
her.  His  vivacity,  his  intensity,  his  power  to  do  varied  work, 
and  especially  the  dominating  faculty  which  he  now  began  to 
display,  sometimes  almost  amazed  her.  She  said  to  herself, 
"  I  have  never  known  him  till  now!"  She  said  to  Alston  Lake, 
"Isn't  it  extraordinary  how  Claude  is  coming  out?"  And 
she  began  to  look  up  to  him  in  a  new  way,  but  with  the  worldly 
eyes,  not  with  the  mild  or  the  passionate  eyes  of  the  spirit. 

Others,  too,  were  impressed  by  the  change  in  Claude.  After 
the  luncheon  at  Sherry's  Mrs.  Shiffney  said,  with  a  sort  of 
reluctance,  to  Charmian: 

"The  air  of  America  seems  to  agree  with  your  composer. 
Has  he  been  on  Riverside  Drive  getting  rid  of  the  last  traces  of 
the  Puritan  tradition?  Or  is  it  the  theater  which  has  stirred 
him  up?  He's  a  new  man." 

"There's  a  good  deal  more  in  Claude  than  people  were 
inclined  to  suppose  in  London,"  said  Charmian,  trying  to 
speak  with  light  indifference,  but  secretly  triumphing. 

"Evidently!"  said  Mrs.  Shiffney.  "Perhaps,  now  that 
you've  forced  him  to  come  out  into  the  open,  he  enjoys  being 
a  storm-center,  as  they  call  it  out  here. 

"Oh,  but  I  didn't  force  him!" 

"Playfully  begged  him  not  to  come,  I  meant." 

Claude  was  sitting  a  little  way  off  talking  to  Susan  Fleet. 
Mrs.  Shiffney  had  "managed"  this.  She  wanted  to  feel  how 
things  were  through  the  woman.  Then  perhaps  she  would 
tackle  the  man.  At  lunch  it  had  seemed  to  her  as  if  success 
were  in  the  air.  Had  she  always  been  mistaken  in  her  judg- 
ment of  Claude  Heath!  Had  Charmian  seen  more  clearly 
and  farther  than  she  had?  She  felt  more  interested  in  Char- 


382        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

mian  than  she  had  ever  felt  before,  and  disliked  her,  in  con- 
sequence, much  more  than  formerly.  How  Charmian  would 
triumph  if  the  Heath  opera  were  a  success!  How  unbearable 
she  would  be!  In  fancy  Mrs.  Shiffney  saw  Charmian  en- 
throned, and  "giving  herself"  a  thousand  airs.  Mrs.  Shiffney 
had  never  forgiven  Charmian  for  taking  possession  of  Claude. 
She  did  not  hate  her  for  that.  Charmian  had  only  got  in  the 
way  of  a  whim.  But  Mrs.  Shiffney  disliked  those  who  got  in 
the  way  of  her  whims,  and  resented  their  conduct,  as  the  spoilt 
child  resents  the  sudden  removal  of  a  toy.  Without  hating 
Charmian  she  dearly  wished  for  the  failure  of  the  great  enter- 
prise, in  which  she  knew  Charmian's  whole  heart  and  soul  were 
involved.  And  she  wished  it  the  more  on  account  of  the  change 
in  Claude  Heath.  In  his  intensity,  his  vivacity,  his  resolution, 
she  was  conscious  of  fascination.  He  puzzled  her.  "There 
really  is  a  great  deal  in  him,"  she  said  to  herself.  And  she 
wished  that  some  of  that  "great  deal"  could  be  hers.  As 
it  could  not  be  hers,  unless  her  judgment  of  a  man,  not  happily 
come  to,  and  now  almost  angrily  accepted,  was  at  fault,  she 
wished  to  punish.  She  could  not  help  this.  But  she  did  not 
desire  to  help  it. 

Mrs.  Shiffney  separated  from  the  Heaths  that  day  without 
speaking  of  the  "libretto-scandal,"  as  the  papers  now  called 
the  invention  of  Madame  Sennier.  They  parted  apparently 
on  cordial  terms.  And  Mrs.  Shiffney 's  last  words  were: 

"  I'm  coming  to  see  you  one  day  in  your  eyrie  at  the  Saint 
Regis.  I  take  no  sides  where  art  is  in  question,  and  I  want 
both  the  operas  to  be  brilliant  successes." 

She  had  said  not  a  word  about  the  rehearsals  at  the  New  Era 
Opera  House. 

Charmian  was  almost  disappointed  by  her  silence.  She 
had  turned  over  and  over  in  her  mind  Claude's  words  about 
the  verdict  in  advance.  She  continued  to  dwell  upon  them 
mentally  after  the  meeting  with  Mrs.  Shiffney.  By  degrees 
she  became  almost  obsessed  by  the  idea  of  Mrs.  Shiffney  as 
arbiter  of  Claude's  destiny  and  hers. 

Mrs.  Shiffney's  position  had  always  fascinated  Charmian, 
because  it  was  the  position  she  would  have  loved  to  occupy. 
Even  in  her  dislike,  her  complete  distrust  of  Mrs.  Shiffney, 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        383 

Charmian  was  attracted  by  her.  Now  she  longed  with  increas- 
ing intensity  to  use  Mrs.  Shiffney  as  a  test. 

Rehearsals  of  Claude's  opera  were  being  hurried  on.  Cray- 
ford  was  determined  to  produce  his  novelty  before  the  Metro- 
politan crowd  produced  theirs. 

"They've  fixed  the  first,"  he  said.  "Then  it's  up  to  us  to 
be  ready  by  the  twenty-eighth,  and  that's  all  there  is  to  it. 
We'll  get  time  enough  to  die  all  right  afterward.  But  there 
aren't  got  to  be  no  dying  nor  quitting  now.  We've  fixed 
the  locusts,  and  now  we'll  start  in  to  fix  all  the  rest  of  the 
cut-out." 

He  had  begun  to  call  Claude's  opera  "the  cut-out"  because 
he  said  it  was  certain  to  cut  out  Sennier's  work.  The  rumors 
about  the  weakness  of  Sennier's  libretto  had  put  the  finishing 
touch  to  his  pride  and  enthusiasm.  Thenceforth  he  set  no 
bounds  to  his  expectations. 

"We've  got  a  certainty!"  he  said.     "And  they  know  it." 

His  energy  was  volcanic.  He  knew  neither  rest  nor  the 
desire  to  rest.  His  season  so  far  had  been  successful,  much 
more  successful  than  any  former  season  of  his.  He  knew  that 
he  was  making  way  with  the  great  New  York  public,  and 
he  was  carried  on  by  the  vigor  which  flames  up  in  a  strong  and 
determined  man  who  believes  himself  to  be  almost  within 
reach  of  the  satisfaction  of  his  greatest  desire. 

Claude,  in  his  new  character  of  the  man  determined  to  win  a 
great  popular  triumph,  appealed  forcibly  to  Crayford. 

"I've  made  him  over!"  he  exclaimed  to  Charmian,  almost 
with  exultation.  "He's  a  man  now.  When  I  lit  out  on  him 
he  was — well,  well,  little  lady,  don't  you  begin  to  fire  up  at  me! 
All  I  mean  is  that  Claude  knows  how  to  carry  things  with  him 
now.  Look  how  he's  stood  up  against  all  the  nonsense  about 
the  libretto!  Why,  he's  right  down  enjoyed  it.  And  the 
first  night  the  pressmen  started  in  he  was  like  a  man  possessed, 
talked  about  his  honor,  and  all  that  kind  of  rubbish.  Now  he 
says 'Stir  it  up!  It's  all  for  the  good  of  the  opera!'  Cane's 
fairly  mad  about  him,  says  he's  on  the  way  to  be  the  best  boom- 
center  that  ever  made  a  publicity  agent  feel  young.  I'm  proud 
of  him!  And  he's  moving  all  the  time.  He'll  get  there  and 
no  mistake!" 


384        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

"I  always  knew  Claude  would  rise  to  his  chance  if  he  got 
it,"  she  said. 

"He's  got  it  now,  don't  you  worry  yourself.  Not  one  man 
in  a  million  has  such  a  chance  at  his  age;  I  tell  you,  Claude  is 
a  made  man!" 

A  made  man!  Charmian  felt  a  thrill  at  her  heart.  But 
again  she  longed  for  a  verdict  from  outside,  for  a  verdict  from 
Mrs.  Shiffney. 

In  the  midst  of  the  tumult  of  her  life  one  day,  very  soon  after 
the  lunch  at  Sherry's,  she  begged  Susan  Fleet  to  come  to  see 
her.  That  day  Claude  and  she  had  been  with  Gillier  at 
the  theater.  As  they  had  ignored  Mrs.  Shiffney's  treachery 
in  the  affair  of  the  libretto,  so  they  had  ignored  Gillier's  insult- 
ing behavior  to  them  at  Djenan-el-Maqui.  Against  his  will 
he  was  with  them  now  in  the  great  enterprise.  They  had 
resolved  to  be  charming  to  him,  and  had  taken  care  to  be  so. 
And  Gillier,  delighted  with  the  notoriety  that  was  his,  his  con- 
ceit decked  out  with  feathers,  met  them  half-way.  He  was 
impressed  by  the  situation  which  Crayford's  powerful  efforts 
had  created  for  them.  He  was  moved  by  the  marked  change 
in  Claude.  These  people  did  not  seem  to  him  the  same  husband 
and  wife  he  had  known  in  the  hidden  Arab  house  at  Mustapha. 
They  had  gained  immeasurably  in  importance.  Comment 
rained  upon  them.  Conflict  swirled  about  them.  Expecta- 
tions centered  upon  them.  And  they  had  the  air  of  those 
upon  whose  footsteps  the  goddess,  Success,  is  following.  Gil- 
lier began  to  lose  his  regret  for  his  lost  opportunity.  He  was 
insensibly  drawn  to  the  Heaths  by  the  spell  of  united  effort. 
Now  that  Claude  did  not  seem  to  care  twopence  for  him,  or 
for  anyone  else,  Gillier  began  to  respect  him,  to  think  a  good 
deal  of  him.  In  Charmian  he  had  always  been  aware  of  certain 
faculties  which  often  make  for  success. 

On  the  day  when  Charmian  was  expected  to  see  Susan 
Fleet  she  had  just  come  from  an  afternoon  rehearsal  which  had 
gone  well.  Gillier  had  been  almost  savagely  delighted  with 
the  performance  of  Enid  Mardon,  who  sang  and  acted  the  r61e 
of  the  heroine.  He  knew  little  of  music,  but  in  the  scene  re- 
hearsed Claude  had  introduced  a  clever  imitation,  if  not  an 
exact  reproduction,  of  the  songs  of  Said  Hitani  and  his  compan- 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        385 

ions.  This  had  aroused  the  enthusiasm  of  Gillier,  who  had 
a  curious  love  of  the  country  where  he  had  spent  the  wild  years 
of  his  youth.  It  had  been  evident  both  to  Charmian  and  to 
Claude  that  he  began  to  have  great  hopes  of  the  opera.  Char- 
mian had  become  so  exultant  on  noticing  this  that  she  had  been 
unable  to  refrain  from  saying  to  Gillier,  "Do  you  begin  to 
believe  in  it?"  As  she  sat  now  waiting  for  Susan  she  remem- 
bered his  answer,  "Madame,  if  the  whole  opera  goes  like  that 
scene — well!"  He  had  finished  with  a  characteristic  gesture, 
throwing  out  his  strong  hands  and  smiling  at  her.  She  almost 
felt  as  if  she  liked  Gillier.  She  began  to  find  excuses  for  his 
former  conduct.  He  was  a  poor  man  struggling  to  make  his 
way,  terribly  anxious  to  succeed.  Madame  Sennier  had  "got 
at"  him.  It  was  not  unnatural,  perhaps,  that  he  had  wished 
to  associate  himself  with  Jacques  Sennier.  Of  course  he  had 
had  no  right  to  suggest  the  withdrawal  of  his  libretto  from 
Claude.  That  had  been  insulting.  But  still — that  day  Char- 
mian found  room  in  her  heart  for  charity.  She  had  not  felt 
so  happy,  so  safe,  for  a  very  long  time.  It  was  almost  as  if 
she  held  success  in  her  hand,  as  a  woman  may  hold  a  jewel  and 
say,  "It  is  mine!" 

A  slight  buzzing  sound  told  her  that  there  was  someone  at 
the  outer  door  of  the  lobby.  In  a  moment  Susan  walked  in, 
looking  as  usual  temperate,  kind,  and  absolutely  unconscious 
of  herself.  She  was  warmly  wrapped  in  a  fur  given  to  her  by 
Mrs.  Shiffney.  When  she  had  taken  it  off  and  sat  down  beside 
Charmian  in  the  over-heated  room,  Charmian  began  at  once 
to  use  her  as  a  receptacle.  She  proceeded  to  pour  her  exulta- 
tion into  Susan.  The  rehearsal  had  greatly  excited  her.  She 
was  full  of  the  ardent  impatience  of  one  who  had  been  patient 
by  force  of  will  in  defiance  of  natural  character,  and  who  now 
felt  that  a  period  was  soon  to  be  put  to  her  suffering  and  that 
she  was  to  enter  into  her  reward.  As,  long  ago,  in  an  Algerian 
garden,  she  had  used  Susan,  she  used  her  now.  And  Susan 
sat  quietly  listening,  with  her  odd  eyes  dropping  in  their 
sockets. 

"Oh,  Susan,  do  take  off  your  gloves!"  Charmian  exclaimed 
presently.  "You  are  going  to  stay  a  good  while,  aren't  you?" 

"Yes,  if  you  like  me  to." 

25 


386        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

"I  should  like  to  be  with  you  every  day  for  hours.  You 
do  me  good.  We'll  have  tea." 

She  went  to  the  telephone,  came  back  quickly,  sat  down 
again,  and  continued  talking  enthusiastically.  When  the 
tea-table  was  in  front  of  her,  and  the  elderly  German  waiter 
had  gone,  she  said: 

"Isn't  it  wonderful?  I  shall  never  forget  how  you  spoke 
of  destiny  to  me  when  we  were  by  the  little  island.  It  was 
then,  I  think,  that  I  felt  it  was  my  fate  to  link  myself  with 
Claude,  to  help  him  on.  Do  you  remember  what  you  said?" 

"That  perhaps  it  was  designed  that  you  should  teach  Mr. 
Heath." 

"Don't  say  mister — on  such  a  day  as  this!" 

"Claude,  then." 

"And,  Susan,  I  don't  want  to  seem  vain,  but  I  have  taught 
him,  I  have  taught  him  to  know  and  rely  on  himself,  to  believe 
in  himself,  in  his  genius,  to  dominate.  He's  marvellously 
changed.  Everyone  notices  it.  You  do,  of  course!" 

"There  is  a  change.  And  I  remember  saying  that  perhaps 
it  was  designed  that  you  should  learn  from  him.  Do  you 
recollect  that?" 

Charmian  was  handing  Susan  her  tea-cup. 

"Oh — yes,"  she  said. 

She  looked  at  Susan  as  the  latter  took  the  cup  with  a  calm 
and  steady  hand. 

"What  excellent  tea!"  observed  Susan. 

"Is  it?     Susan!" 

"Well?" 

"I  believe  you  are  very  reserved." 

"No,  I  don't  think  so." 

"Yes,  you  keep  half  your  thoughts  about  things  and  people 
entirely  to  yourself." 

"I  think  most  of  us  do  that." 

"About  me,  for  instance!  I've  been  talking  a  great  deal 
to  you  in  here.  And  you've  been  listening,  and  thinking." 

There  was  an  uneasy  sound  in  Charmian's  voice. 

"Yes.     Didn't  you  wish  me  to  listen?" 

"I  suppose  I  did.  But  you've  been  thinking.  What 
have  you  been  thinking?" 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        387 

"That  it's  a  long  journey  up  the  ray,"  said  Susan,  with  a 
sort  of  gentle  firmness. 

"Ah — the  ray!  I  remember  your  saying  that  to  me  long 
ago." 

"We've  got  a  great  deal  to  learn,  I  think,  as  well  as  to 
teach." 

Charmian  was  silent  for  a  minute. 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  think  I  only  care  to  teach,  that  I 
— that  I  am  not  much  of  a  pupil?"  she  said  at  length. 

"Perhaps  that  is  putting  it  too  strongly.  But  I  believe 
your  husband  had  a  great  deal  to  give." 

"Claude!  Do  you?  But  yes,  of  course — Susan!"  Char- 
mian's  voice  changed,  became  almost  sharply  interrogative. 
"Do  you  mean  that  Claude  could  teach  me  more  than  I  could 
ever  teach  him?" 

"It  is  impossible  for  me  to  be  sure  of  that." 

"Perhaps.     But,  tell  me,  do  you  think  it  is  so?" 

"I  am  inclined  to." 

Charmian  felt  as  if  she  flushed.  She  was  conscious  of  a  stir 
of  something  that  was  like  anger  within  her.  It  hurt  her 
very  much  to  think  that  perhaps  Susan  put  Claude  higher  than 
her.  But  she  controlled  the  expression  of  what  she  felt,  and 
only  said,  perhaps  a  little  coldly: 

"It  ought  to  be  so.    He  is  so  much  cleverer  than  I  am." 

"I  don't  think  I  mean  that.  It  isn't  always  cleverness  we 
learn  from." 

"Goodness  then!" 

Charmian  forced  herself  to  smile. 

"Do  you  think  me  far  below  Claude  from  the  moral  point 
of  view?"  she  added,  with  an  attempt  at  laughing  lightness. 

"It  isn't  that  either.  But  I  think  he  has  let  out  an  anchor 
which  reaches  bottom,  though  perhaps  at  present  he  isn't 
aware  of  it.  And  I'm  not  sure  that  you  ever  have.  By  the 
way,  I've  a  message  from  Adelaide  for  you." 

"Yes?" 

"She  wants  to  know  how  your  rehearsals  are  going." 

"Wonderfully  well,  as  I  said." 

Charmain  spoke  almost  gravely.  Her  exultant  enthusiasm 
had  died  away  for  the  moment. 


388        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

"And,  if  it  is  allowed,  she  would  like  to  go  to  one.  Can 
she?" 

Charmian  hesitated.  But  the  strong  desire  for  Mrs. 
Shiffney's  verdict  overcame  a  certain  suddenly  born  reluctance 
•of  which  she  was  aware,  and  she  said: 

"  I  should  think  so.  Why  not?  Even  a  spy  cannot  destroy 
the  merit  of  the  enemy's  work  by  wishing." 

Susan  said  nothing  to  this. 

"You  must  come  with  her  if  she  does  come,"  Charmian 
added. 

She  was  still  feeling  hurt.  She  had  looked  upon  Susan  as 
her  very  special  friend.  She  had  let  Susan  see  into  her  heart. 
And  now  she  realized  that  Susan  had  criticized  that  heart. 
At  that  moment  Charmian  was  too  unreasonable  to  remember 
that  criticism  if  often  an  inevitable  movement  of  the  mind 
which  does  not  touch  the  soul  to  change  it.  Her  attempt  at 
cordiality  was,  therefore,  forced. 

"I  don't  know  whether  she  will  want  me,"  said  Susan. 
"But  at  any  rate  I  shall  be  there  for  the  first  night." 

"Ah — the  first  night!"  said  Charmian. 

Again  she  changed.  With  the  thought  of  the  coming  epoch 
in  her  life  and  Claude's  her  vexation  died. 

"It's  coming  so  near!"  she  said.  "There  are  moments  when 
I  want  to  rush  toward  it,  and  others  when  I  wish  it  were 
iar  away.  It's  terrible  when  so  much  hangs  on  one  night, 
just  three  or  four  hours  of  time.  One  does  need  courage  in 
art.  But  Claude  has  found  it.  Yes,  Susan,  you  are  right. 
Claude  is  finer  than  I  am.  He  is  beginning  to  dominate  me 
here,  as  he  never  dominated  me  before.  If  he  triumphs — 
and  he  will,  he  shall  triumph! — I  believe  I  shall  be  quite  at 
his  feet." 

She  laughed,  but  tears  were  not  far  from  her  eyes.  This 
period  she  was  passing  through  in  New  York  was  tearing  at 
her  nerves  with  teeth  and  claws  although  she  scarcely  knew  it. 

Susan,  who  had  seen  clearly  the  hurt  she  had  inflicted, 
moved,  came  nearer  to  Charmian,  and  gently  took  one  of  her 
hands. 

"My  dear,"  she  said.  "Does  it  matter  so  much  which 
it  is?" 


THE  kWAY  OF  AMBITION        389 

"Matter!  Of  course  it  does.  Everything  hangs  upon  it 
— for  us,  I  mean,  of  course.  We  have  given  up  everything 
for  the  opera,  altered  our  lives.  It  is  to  be  the  beginning  of 
everything  for  us." 

Susan  looked  steadily  at  Charmian  with  her  ugly,  beautiful 
eyes. 

"Perhaps  it  might  be  that  in  either  case,"  she  said.  "Dear 
Charmian,  I  think  preaching  is  rather  odious.  I  hope  I  don't 
often  step  into  the  pulpit.  But  we've  talked  of  many  things, 
of  things  I  care  for  and  believe  in.  May  I  tell  you  something 
I  think  with  the  whole  of  my  mind,  and  even  more  than  that 
as  it  seems  to  me?" 

"Yes.     Yes,  Susan!" 

"I  think  the  success  or  failure  only  matters  really  as  it 
affects  character,  and  the  relation  existing  between  your  soul 
and  your  husband's.  The  rest  scarcely  counts,  I  think.  And 
so,  if  I  were  to  pray  about  such  a  thing  as  this  opera,  pray 
with  the  impulse  of  a  friend  who  really  does  care  for  you,  I 
should  pray  that  your  two  souls  might  have  what  they  need, 
what  they  must  be  asking  for,  whether  that  is  a  great  success, 
or  a  great  failure." 

The  door  opened  and  Claude  came  in  on  the  two  women. 

"  Did  I  hear  the  word  failure?"  he  said,  smiling,  as  he  went 
up  to  Susan  and  took  her  hand.  "Charmian,  I  wonder 
you  allow  it  to  be  spoken  in  our  sitting-room." 

"I — I  didn't — we  weren't,"  she  almost  stammered.  But 
quickly  recovering  herself,  she  said: 

"  Susan  has  come  with  a  message  from  Adelaide  Shiffney." 

"You  mean  about  being  let  in  at  a  rehearsal?" 

"Yes,"  said  Susan. 

"I've  just  been  with  Mrs.  Shiffney.  She  called  at  the  thea- 
ter after  you  had  gone,  Charmian.  I  drove  to  the  Ritz  with 
her  and  went  in." 

Charmian  looked  narrowly  at  her  husband. 

"Then  of  course  she  spoke  about  the  rehearsal?" 

"Yes.  Madame  Sennier  dropped  in  upon  us.  What  do 
you  think  of  that?" 

Charmian  thought  that  his  face  and  manner  were  strangely 
hard. 


390        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

"Madame  Sennier!    And  did  you  stay,  did  you — " 

"Of  course.  I  thanked  her  for  giving  the  opera  such  a 
lift  with  her  slanders  about  the  libretto.  I  tackled  her.  It 
was  the  greatest  fun.  I  only  wish  Crayford  had  been  there  to 
hear  me." 

"How  did  she  take  it?"  asked  Charmian,  glancing  at  Susan, 
and  feeling  uncomfortable. 

"She  was  furious,  I  think.  I  hope  so.  I  meant  her  to  be. 
But  she  didn't  say  much,  except  that  the  papers  were  full  of 
lies,  and  nobody  believed  them  except  fools.  When  she  was 
going  I  gave  her  a  piece  of  news  to  comfort  her." 

"What  was  that?" 

"That  my  opera  will  be  produced  the  night  before  her 
husband's." 

Susan  got  up. 

"Well,  I  must  go,"  she  said.  "I've  been  here  a  long  time, 
and  daresay  you  both  want  to  rest." 

"Rest!"  exclaimed  Claude.  "That's  the  last  thing  we 
want,  isn't  it,  Charmian?" 

He  helped  Susan  to  put  on  her  fur. 

"There's  another  rehearsal  to-night  after  the  performance 
of  A'ida.  You  see  it's  a  race,  and  we  mean  to  be  in  first. 
I  wish  you  could  have  seen  Madame  Sennier's  face  when  I 
told  her  we  should  produce  on  the  twenty-eighth." 

He  laughed.  But  neither  Charmian  nor  Susan  laughed  with 
him.  As  Susan  was  leaving  he  said: 

"You  come  from  the  enemy's  camp,  but  you  do  wish  us 
success,  don't  you?" 

"I  have  just  been  telling  Charmian  what  I  wish  you," 
answered  Susan  gently,  with  her  straight  and  quiet  look. 

"Have  you?"  He  wheeled  round  to  Charmian.  "What 
was  it?" 

Charmian  looked  taken  aback. 

"Oh— what  was  it?" 

"Yes?"  said  Claude. 

"The— the  very  best!    Wasn't  it,  Susan?" 

"Yes.    I  wished  you  the  very  best." 

"Capital!    Too  bad,  you  are  going!" 

He  went  with  Susan  to  the  door. 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        391 

When  he  came  back  he  said  to  Charmian: 

"Susan  Fleet  is  very  quiet,  the  least  obtrusive  person  I 
ever  met.  But  she's  strange.  I  believe  she  sees  far." 

His  face  and  manner  had  changed.  He  threw  himself 
down  in  a  chair  and  leaned  his  head  against  the  back  of  it. 

"I'm  going  to  relax  for  a  minute,  Charmian.  It's  the 
only  way  to  rest.  And  I  shall  be  up  most  of  the  night." 

He  shut  his  eyes.    His  whole  body  seemed  to  become  loose. 

"She  sees  far,  I  think,"  he  murmured,  scarcely  moving  his 
sensitive  lips. 

Charmian  sat  watching  his  pale  forehead,  his  white  eyelids. 

And  New  York  roared  outside. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

>T~"VHE  respective  publicity  agents  of  the  two  opera  houses 
had  been  so  energetic  in  their  efforts  on  behalf  of  their 
managements,  that,  to  the  Senniers,  the  Heaths,  and  all 
those  specially  interested  in  the  rival  enterprises,  it  began  to 
seem  as  if  the  whole  world  hung  upon  the  two  operas,  as  if  noth- 
ing mattered  but  their  success  or  failure.  Charmian  received 
all  the  "cuttings"  which  dealt  with  the  works  and  their  com- 
posers, with  herself  and  Madame  Sennier,  from  a  newspaper 
clipping  bureau.  And  during  these  days  of  furious  prepara- 
tion she  read  no  other  literature.  Whenever  she  was  in  the 
hotel,  and  not  with  people,  she  was  poring  over  these  articles, 
or  tabulating  and  arranging  them  in  books.  The  Heaths, 
Claude  Heath,  Charmian  Heath,  Claude  Heath's  opera, 
Armand  Gillier  and  Claude  Heath,  Madame  Sennier's  quarrel 
with  Claude  Heath,  Mrs.  Heath's  brilliant  efforts  for  her 
talented  husband,  Joseph  Crayford's  opinion  of  Mrs.  Charmian 
Heath,  how  a  clever  woman  can  help  her  husband — was  there 
really  anything  of  importance  in  this  world  except  Charmian 
and  Claude  Heath's  energy,  enterprise,  and  ultimate  success? 

From  the  hotel  she  went  to  the  Opera  House.  And  there 
she  was  in  the  midst  of  a  world  apart,  which  seemed  to  her  the 
whole  of  the  world.  Everybody  whom  she  met  there  was 
concentrated  on  the  opera.  She  talked  to  orchestral  players 
about  the  musical  effects;  to  the  conductor  about  detail, 
color,  ensemble;  to  scene-painters  about  the  various  "sets," 
their  arrangement,  lighting,  the  gauzes  used  in  them,  the 
properties,  the  back  cloths;  to  machinists  about  the  locusts 
and  other  sensations;  to  the  singers  about  their  roles;  to 
dancers  about  their  strange  Eastern  poses;  to  Fakirs  about 
their  serpents  and  their  miracles.  She  lived  in  the  opera,  as 
the  opera  lived  in  the  vast  theater.  She  was,  as  it  were, 
enclosed  in  a  shell  within  a  shell.  New  York  was  the  great 
sea  murmuring  outside.  And  always  it  was  murmuring  of 

392 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        393 

the  opera.  In  consequence  of  Jacob  Crayford's  great  opinion 
of  Charmian  she  was  the  spoilt  child  in  his  theater.  Her 
situation  there  was  delightful.  Everybody  took  his  cue  from 
Crayford.  And  Crayford's  verdict  on  Charmian  was,  "  She's  a 
wonderful  little  lady.  I  know  her,  and  I  say  she's  a  peach. 
Heath  did  the  cleverest  thing  he  ever  did  in  his  life  when  he 
married  her." 

Charmian  really  had  influence  with  Crayford,  and  she 
used  it,  revelling  in  a  sense  of  her  power  and  importance.  He 
consulted  her  about  many  points  in  the  performance.  And 
she  spoke  her  mind  with  decision,  growing  day  by  day  in 
self-reliance.  In  the  theater  she  was  generally  surrounded, 
and  she  grew  to  love  it  as  she  had  never  loved  any  place  before. 
The  romance  and  beauty  of  Djenan-el-Maqui  were  as  nothing 
in  comparison  with  the  fascination  of  the  Monster  with  the 
Maw,  vast,  dark,  and  patient,  waiting  for  its  evening  prov- 
ender. To  Charmian  it  seemed  like  a  great  personality. 
Often  she  found  herself  thinking  of  it  as  sentient,  brooding 
over  the  opera,  secretly  attentive  to  all  that  was  going  on  in 
connection  with  it.  She  loved  its  darkness,  the  ghostly  light- 
ness of  the  covers  spread  over  it,  the  ranges  of  its  gaping 
boxes,  the  far-off  mystery  of  its  galleries  receding  into  a 
heaven  of  ebon  blackness.  She  wandered  about  it,  sitting 
first  here,  then  there,  becoming  intimate  with  the  monster  on 
whom  she  sometimes  felt  as  if  her  life  and  fortunes  depended. 

"All  this  we  are  doing  for  you!"  something  within  her 
seemed  to  whisper.  "Will  you  be  satisfied  with  our  efforts? 
Will  you  reward  us?" 

And  then,  in  imagination,  she  saw  the  monster  changed. 
No  longer  it  brooded,  watched,  considered,  waited.  It  had 
sprung  into  ardent  life,  put  off  its  darkness,  wrapped  itself  in 
a  garment  of  light. 

"You  have  given  me  what  I  needed  I"  she  beard  it  saying. 
"Look!" 

And  she  saw  the  crowd! 

Then  sometimes  she  shut  her  eyes.  She  wanted  to  feel  the 
crowd,  those  masses  of  souls  in  masses  of  bodies  for  which 
she  had  done  so  much.  Always  surely  they  had  been  keeping 
the  ring  for  Claude  and  for  her.  And  it  seemed  to  her  that, 


394        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION! 

unseen,  they  had  circled  the  Isle  in  the  far-off  Algerian  garden 
where  she  first  spoke  of  her  love  and  desire  for  Claude,  that 
they  had  ever  since  been  attending  upon  her  life.  Had  they 
not  muttered  about  the  white  house  that  held  the  worker? 
Had  they  not  stared  at  the  one  who  sat  waiting  by  the  foun- 
tain? Had  they  not  seen  the  arrival  of  Jacob  Crayford? 
Had  they  not  assisted  at  those  long  colloquies  when  the 
opera  which  was  for  them  was  changed?  Absurdly,  she  felt 
as  if  they  had.  And  now,  very  soon,  it  would  be  for  them  to 
speak.  And  striving  to  shut  her  eyes  more  firmly,  or  pressing 
her  fingers  upon  them,  Charmian  saw  moving  hands,  a  forest 
of  them  below,  circles  above  circles  of  them,  and  in  the  distance 
of  the  gods  a  mist  of  them.  And  she  saw  the  shining  of 
thousands  of  eyes,  in  which  were  mirrored  strangely,  almost 
mystically,  souls  that  Claude's  music,  conceived  in  patience 
and  labor,  had  moved  and  that  wished  to  tell  him  so. 

She  saw  the  crowd!  And  she  saw  it  returning  to  listen  again. 
And  she  remembered,  with  the  extraordinary  vitality  of  an 
ardent  woman,  who  was  still  little  more  than  a  girl,  how  she 
had  sat  opposite  to  the  white-faced,  red-haired  heroine  on 
the  first  night  of  Jacques  Sennier's  Paradis  Terrestre;  how 
she  had  watched  her,  imaginatively  entered  into  her  mind, 
become  one  with  her.  That  night  Claude  had  written  his 
letter  to  her,  Charmian.  The  force  in  her,  had  entered  into 
him,  had  inspired  him  to  do  what  he  did  that  night,  had  in- 
spired him  to  do  what  he  had  since  done  always  near  to  her. 
And  soon,  very  soon,  the  white-faced,  red-haired  woman 
would  be  watching  her. 

Then  something  that  was  almost  like  an  intoxication  of  the 
senses,  something  that,  though  it  was  born  in  the  mind, 
seemed  intimately  physical,  came  upon,  rushed  over  Charmian. 
It  was  the  intoxication  of  an  acute  ambition  which  believed 
itself  close  to  fulfilment.  Life  seemed  very  wonderful  to  her. 
Scarcely  could  she  imagine  anything  more  wonderful  than  life 
holding  the  gift  she  asked  for,  the  gift  something  in  her  de- 
manded. And  she  connected  love  with  ambition,  even  with 
notoriety.  She  conceived  of  a  satisfied  ambition  drawing  two 
human  beings  together,  cementing  their  hearts  together, 
merging  their  souls  in  one. 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        395 

"How  I  shall  love  Claude  triumphant!"  she  thought 
exultantly,  even  passionately,  as  if  she  were  thinking  of  a  man 
new  made,  more  lovable  by  a  big  measure  than  he  had  been 
before.  And  she  saw  love  triumphant  with  wings  of  flame 
mounting  into  the  regions  of  desire,  drawing  her  soul  up. 

"Claude's  triumph  will  develop  me,"  she  thought. 
"Through  it  I  shall  become  the  utmost  of  which  I  am  capable. 
I  am  one  of  those  women  who  can  only  thrive  in  the  atmos- 
phere of  glory." 

Claude  triumphant,  and  made  triumphant  by  her!  She 
cherished  that  imagination.  She  became  possessed  by  it. 

Everything  conspired  to  keep  that  imagination  alive  and 
powerful  within  her.  Crayford  was  an  enthusiast  for  the 
opera,  and  infected  all  those  who  belonged  to  him,  who  were 
connected  with  his  magnificent  theater,  with  his  own  enthu- 
siasm. The  scene-painter,  who  had,  almost  with  genius, 
prepared  exquisite  Eastern  pictures,  was  an  enthusiast  fore- 
seeing that  he  would  gain  in  the  opera  the  triumph  of  his 
career.  The  machinist  was  "fairly  wild"  about  the  opera. 
Had  he  not  invented  the  marvellous  locust  effect,  which  was 
to  be  a  new  sensation?  Mr.  Mulworth,  by  dint  of  working 
with  fury  and  sitting  up  all  night,  had  become  fanatical  about 
the  opera.  He  existed  only  for  it.  No  thought  of  any  other 
thing  could  find  a  resting-place  in  his  mind.  His  "produc- 
tion" was  going  to  be  a  masterpiece  such  as  had  never  before 
been  known  in  the  history  of  the  stage.  Nothing  had  been 
forgotten.  He  had  brought  the  East  to  New  York.  It  was 
inconceivable  by  him  that  New  York  could  reject  it.  He 
spoke  about  the  music,  but  he  meant  his  "production."  The 
man  was  a  marvel  in  his  own  line,  and  such  a  worker  as  can 
rarely  be  found  anywhere.  He  believed  the  opera  was  going 
to  mark  an  epoch  in  the  history  of  the  lyric  stage.  And  he 
said  so,  almost  wildly,  in  late  hours  of  the  night  to  Charmian. 

Then  there  was  Alston,  who  was  to  have  his  first  great 
chance  in  the  opera,  and  who  grew  more  fervently  believing 
with  each  rehearsal. 

The  great  theater  was  pervaded  by  optimism,  which  flowed 
from  the  fountain-head  of  its  owner.  And  this  optimism 
percolated  through  certain  sections  of  society  in  New  York, 


396        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

as  had  been  the  case  in  London  before  Sennier's  Paradis 
Terrestre  was  given  for  the  first  time. 

Report  of  the  opera  was  very  good.  And  with  each  passing 
day  it  became  better. 

Charmian  remembered  what  had  happened  in  London,  and 
thought  exultantly,  "Success  is  in  the  air." 

It  certainly  seemed  to  be  so.  Rumor  was  busy  and  spoke 
kind  things.  Charmian  noticed  that  the  manner  of  many- 
people  toward  her  and  Claude  was  becoming  increasingly 
cordial.  The  pressmen  whom  she  met  gave  her  unmistakable 
indications  that  they  expected  great  things  of  her  husband. 
Two  of  them,  musical  critics  both,  came  to  dine  with  her  and 
Claude  one  night  at  the  St.  Regis,  and  talked  music  for  hours. 
One  of  them  had  lived  in  Paris,  and  was  steeped  in  modernity. 
He  was  evidently  much  interested  in  Claude's  personality, 
and  after  dinner,  when  they  had  all  returned  from  the  restau- 
rant to  the  Heaths'  sitting-room,  he  said  to  Charmian: 

"Your  husband  is  the  most  interesting  English  personality 
I  have  met.  He  is  the  only  Englishman  who  has  ever  given 
to  me  the  feeling  of  strangeness,  of  the  beyond." 

He  glanced  around  with  his  large  Southern  eyes  and  saw 
that  there  was  a  piano  in  the  room. 

"Would  he  play  to  us,  do  you  think?"  he  said,  rather 
tentatively.  "I  am  not  asking  as  a  pressman  but  as  a  keen 
musician." 

"Claude!"  Charmian  said.  "Mr.  Van  Brinen  asks  if  you 
will  play  us  a  little  bit  of  the  opera." 

Claude  got  up. 

"Why  not?"  he  said. 

He  spoke  firmly.  His  manner  was  self-reliant,  almost 
determined.  He  went  to  the  piano,  sat  down,  and  played 
the  scene  Gillier  had  liked  so  much,  the  scene  in  which  some  of 
Said  Hitani's  curious  songs  were  reproduced.  The  two 
journalists  were  evidently  delighted. 

"That's  new!"  said  Van  Brinen.  "Nothing  like  that  has 
ever  been  heard  here  before.  It  brings  a  breath  of  the  East 
to  Broadway." 

Claude  had  turned  half  round  on  the  piano  stool.  His  eyes 
were  fixed  upon  Van  Brinen.  And  now  Van  Brinen  looked 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        397 

at  him.  There  was  an  instant  of  silence.  Then  Claude  swung 
round  again  to  the  piano  and  began  to  play  something  that  was 
not  out  of  the  opera.  Charmian  had  never  heard  it  before. 
But  Mrs.  Mansfield  had  heard  it. 

"'I  heard  a  great  voice  out  of  the  temple  saying  to  the 
seven  angels,  "Go  your  ways,  and  pour  out  the  vials  of  the 
wrath  of  God  upon  the  earth.  .  .  . " 

"The  second  angel  poured  out  his  vial  upon  the  sea;  and  it 
became  as  the  blood  of  a  dead  man.  .  .  . 

"The  fourth  angel  poured  out  his  vial  upon  the  sun;  and 
power  was  given  to  him  to  scorch  men  with  fire.  .  .  . 

' '  The  sixth  angel  poured  out  his  vial  upon  the  great  river 
Euphrates;  and  the  water  thereof  was  dried  up,  that  the  way 
of  the  Kings  of  the  East  might  be  prepared.  .  .  . 

"Behold  I  come  as  a  thief.  Blessed  is  he  that  watcheth, 
and  keepeth  his  garments,  lest  he  walk  naked,  and  they  see 
his  shame. ' ' 

When  Claude  ceased  there  was  a  silence  that  seemed  long. 
He  remained  sitting  with  his  back  to  his  wife  and  his  guests, 
his  face  to  the  piano.  At  last  he  got  up  and  turned,  and  his 
eyes  again  sought  the  face  of  Van  Brinen.  Then  Van  Brinen 
moved,  clasped  his  long  and  thin  hands  tightly  together,  and 
said: 

"That's  great!    That's  very  great!" 

He  paused,  gazing  at  Claude. 

"That's  enormous!"  he  said.  " Do  you  mean — is  that  from 
the  opera?" 

"Oh,  no!"  said  Claude. 

He  came  to  sit  down,  and  began  to  talk  quickly  of  all  sorts 
of  things.  When  the  two  pressmen  were  about  to  go  away 
Van  Brinen  said: 

"I  wish  you  success,  Mr.  Heath,  as  I  have  very  seldom 
wished  it  for  any  man.  For  since  I  have  heard  some  of  your 
music,  I  feel  that  you  deserve  it  as  very  few  musicians  I  know 
anything  of  do." 

Claude's  face  flushed  painfully,  became  scarlet. 

"Thank  you  very  much,"  he  almost  muttered.  But  he 
wrung  Van  Brinen's  thin  hand  hard,  and  when  he  was  alone 
with  Charmian  he  said: 


398        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

"Of  all  the  men  I  have  met  in  New  York  that  is  the  one  I 
like  best." 

Van  Brinen  had  considerable  influence  in  the  musical  world 
of  New  York,  and  after  that  evening  he~  used  it  on  Claude's 
behalf.  The  members  of  the  art  circles  of  the  city  had  Claude's 
name  perpetually  upon  their  lips.  Articles  began  to  appear 
which  voiced  the  great  expectation  musicians  were  beginning 
to  found  upon  Claude's  work.  The  "boom"  grew,  and  was 
no  longer  merely  sensational,  a  noisy  thing  worked  up  by  paid 
agents. 

Charmian  became  quickly  aware  of  this  and  exulted.  Now 
and  then  she  remembered  her  conversation  with  Susan  Fleet 
and  had  a  moment  of  doubt,  of  wonder.  Now  and  then  a 
fleeting  expression  in  the  pale  face  of  her  husband,  a  look  in 
his  eyes,  a  sound  in  his  voice,  even  a  movement,  sent  a  slight 
chill  through  her  heart.  But  these  faintly  disagreeable  sen- 
sations passed  swiftly  from  her.  The  whirling  round  of  life 
took  her,  swept  her  on.  She  had  scarcely  time  to  think, 
though  she  had  always  time  to  feel  intensely. 

Often  during  these  days  of  fierce  preparation  she  was  sepa- 
rated from  Claude.  He  had  innumerable  things  to  do  con- 
nected with  the  production.  Charmian  haunted  the  opera 
house,  but  was  seldom  actually  with  Claude  there,  though  she 
often  saw  him  on  the  stage  or  in  the  orchestra,  heard  him  dis- 
cussing points  concerning  his  work.  And  Claude  was  very 
often  away,  when  rehearsals  did  not  demand  his  attention, 
visiting  the  singers  who  were  to  appear  in  the  opera,  going 
through  their  rdles  with  them,  trying  to  imbue  them  with  his 
exact  meaning.  Charmian  meanwhile  was  with  some  of  the 
many  friends  she  had  made  in  New  York. 

Thus  it  happened  that  Claude  was  able  to  meet  Mrs.  Shiff- 
ney  several  times  without  Charmian's  knowledge. 

It  was  an  understood  thing — and  Charmian  knew  this — 
that  Mrs.  Shiffney  was  to  come  to  the  first  full  rehearsal  of  the 
opera.  The  verdict  in  advance  was  to  be  given  and  taken. 
Mrs.  Shiffney  had  called  once  at  the  St.  Regis,  when  Claude  was 
out,  and  had  sat  for  ten  minutes  with  Charmian.  And  Char- 
mian had  called  upon  her  at  the  Ritz-Carlton  and  had  not 
found  her.  Here  matters  had  ended  in  connection  with 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        399 

"Adelaide,"  so  far  as  Charmian  knew.  Mrs.  Shiffney  had 
multitudes  of  friends  in  New  York,  and  was  always  rushing 
about.  It  never  occurred  to  Charmian  that  she  had  any  time 
to  give  to  Claude,  or  that  Claude  had  any  time  to  give  to  her. 
But  Mrs.  Shiffney  always  found  time  to  do  anything  she  really 
cared  to  do.  And  just  now  she  cared  to  meet  Claude. 

Long  ago  in  London,  when  he  was  very  genuine,  she  had  been 
attracted  by  him.  Now,  in  New  York,  when  he  was  dressed 
up  in  motley,  with  painted  face  and  eyes  that  strove,  though 
sometimes  in  vain,  to  be  false,  he  fascinated  her.  The  new 
Claude,  harder,  more  dominant,  secretly  unhappy,  feverish 
with  a  burning  excitement  of  soul  and  brain,  appealed  to  this 
woman  who  loved  all  that  was  strange,  exotic,  who  hated  and 
despised  the  commonplace,  and  who  lived  on  excitement. 

She  threw  out  one  or  two  lures  for  Claude,  and  he,  who  in 
London  had  refused  her  invitations,  in  New  York  accepted 
them.  Why  did  he  do  this?  Because  he  had  flung  away  his 
real  self,  because  he  was  secretly  angry  with,  hated  the  self  to 
which  he  was  giving  the  rein,  because  he,  too,  during  this 
period  was  living  on  excitement,  because  he  longed  sometimes, 
with  a  cruel  longing,  to  raise  up  a  barrier  between  himself  and 
Charmian. 

And  perhaps  there  were  other  reasons  that  only  a  physician 
could  have  explained,  reasons  connected  with  tired  and  irri- 
tated nerves,  with  a  brain  upon  which  an  unnatural  strain  had 
been  put.  The  overworked  man  of  talent  sometimes  is  con- 
fronted with  strange  figures  making  strange  demands  upon  him. 
Claude  knew  these  figures  now. 

He  had  always  been  aware  of  fascination  in  Mrs.  Shiffney. 
Now  he  let  himself  go  toward  this  fascination.  He  had 
always,  too,  felt  what  he  had  called  the  minotaur-thing  in 
her,  the  creature  with  teeth  and  claws  fastening  upon  pleasure. 
Now  he  was  ready  to  be  with  the  minotaur-thing.  For  some- 
thing within  him,  that  was  intimately  connected  with  what- 
ever he  had  of  genius,  murmured  incessantly,  "To-morrow 
I  die!"  And  he  wanted,  at  any  cost,  to  dull  the  sound  of  that 
voice.  Why  should  not  he  let  his  monster  fasten  on  pleasure 
too?  The  situation  was  full  of  a  piquancy  which  delighted 
Mrs.  Shiffney.  She  was  "  on  the  other  side,"  and  was  now  pre- 


400       THE  WAY  OT  AMBITION 

paring  to  make  love  in  the  enemy's  camp.  Nothing  pleased 
her  more  than  to  mingle  art  with  love,  linking  the  intelligence 
of  her  brain  with  the  emotion,  such  as  it  was,  of  her  thoroughly 
pagan  heart.  And  the  feeling  that  she  was  a  sort  of  traitress 
to  her  beloved  Jacques  and  Henriette  was  quite  enchanting. 
One  thing  more  gave  a  very  feminine  zest  to  her  pursuit — 
the  thought  of  Charmian,  who  knew  nothing  about  it,  but 
who,  no  doubt,  would  know  some  day.  She  rejoiced  in  in- 
trigue, loved  a  secret  that  would  eventually  be  hinted  at,  if  not 
actually  told,  and  revelled  in  proving  her  power  on  a  man  who, 
in  his  unknown  days,  had  resisted  it,  and  who  now  that  he 
was  on  the  eve,  perhaps,  of  a  wide  fame,  seemed  ready  to  suc- 
cumb to  it.  There  were  even  moments  when  she  found 
herself  wishing  for  the  success  of  Claude's  opera,  despite  her 
active  dislike  of  Charmian.  It  would  really  be  such  fun  to 
take  Claude  away  from  that  silly  Charmian  creature  in  the 
very  hour  of  a  triumph.  Yet  she  did  not  wish  to  see  Charmian 
even  the  neglected  wife  of  a  great  celebrity.  Her  feelings 
were  rather  complex.  But  she  had  always  been  at  home  with 
complexity. 

She  managed  to  get  rid  of  Susan  Fleet,  by  persuading  her 
to  visit  some  friends  of  Susan  who  lived  in  Washington.  Then 
it  was  easy  enough  to  see  Claude  quietly,  in  her  apartment  at 
the  Ritz-Carlton  Hotel  and  elsewhere.  Mrs.  Shiffney  was  a 
past  mistress  of  what  she  called  "playing  about."  Claude 
recognized  this,  and  had  a  glimpse  into  a  life  strangely  different 
from  his  own,  an  almost  intimate  glimpse  which  both  inter- 
ested and  disgusted  him. 

In  his  determination  to  grasp  at  the  blatant  thing,  the  big 
success,  a  determination  that  pushed  him  almost  inevitably 
into  a  certain  extravagance  of  conduct,  because  it  was  foreign 
to  his  innermost  nature,  Claude  gave  himself  to  the  vulgar 
vanity  of  the  male.  He  was  out  here  to  conquer.  Why  not 
conquer  Mrs.  Shiffney?  To  do  that  would  be  scarcely  more 
spurious  than  to  win  with  a  "made  over"  opera. 

He  kept  secret  assignations,  which  were  not  openly  sup- 
posed to  be  secret  by  either  Mrs.  Shiffney  or  himself.  For 
Mrs.  Shiffney  was  leading  him  gently,  savoring  nuances,  while 
lie  was  feeling  blatant,  though  saved  by  his  breeding  from 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        401 

showing  it.  They  had  some  charming,  some  almost  exciting 
talks,  full  of  innuendo,  of  veiled  allusions  to  personal  feeling 
and  the  human  depths.  And  all  this  was  mingled  with  art 
and  the  great  life  of  human  ambition.  Mrs.  Shiffney's  attrac- 
tion to  artists  was  a  genuine  thing  in  her.  She  really  felt  the 
pull  of  that  which  was  secretly  powerful  in  Claude.  And  she, 
not  too  consciously,  made  him  know  this.  The  knowledge 
drew  him  toward  her. 

One  day  Claude  went  to  see  her  after  a  long  rehearsal. 
When  he  reached  the  hotel  it  was  nearly  eight  o'clock.  The 
rehearsal  of  his  opera  had  only  been  stopped  because  it  had 
been  necessary  to  get  ready  for  the  evening  performance. 
Claude  had  promised  to  dine  with  Van  Brinen  that  night,  and 
Charmian  was  dining  with  some  friends.  But,  at  the  last 
moment,  Van  Brinen  had  telephoned  to  say  that  he  was 
obliged  to  go  to  a  concert  on  behalf  of  his  paper.  Claude 
had  left  the  opera  house,  weary,  excited,  doubtful  what 
to  do.  If  he  returned  to  the  St.  Regis  he  would  be  all  alone. 
At  that  moment  he  dreaded  solitude.  After  hesitating 
for  a  moment  outside  the  stage  door,  he  called  a  taxi-cab, 
and  ordered  the  man  to  drive  to  the  Ritz-Carlton  Hotel. 

Mrs.  Shiffney  would  probably  be  out,  would  almost  certainly 
have  some  engagement  for  the  evening.  The  hour  was  un- 
orthodox for  a  visit.  Claude  did  not  care.  He  had  been 
drowned  in  his  own  music  for  hours.  He  was  in  a  strongly 
emotional  condition,  and  wanted  to  do  something  strange, 
something  bizarre. 

He  sent  up  his  name  to  Mrs.  Shiffney,  who  was  at  home. 
In  a  few  moments  she  sent  down  to  say  she  would  see  him  in 
her  sitting-room.  When  Claude  came  into  it  he  found  her 
there  in  an  evening  gown. 

"Do  forgive  me!    You're  going  out?"  he  said. 

"  Where  are  you  dining?"  she  answered. 

Claude  made  a  vague  gesture. 

"Have  you  come  to  dine  with  me?"  she  said,  smiling. 

"But  I  see  you  are  going  out!" 

She  shook  her  powerful  head. 

"  We  will  dine  up  here.  But  I  must  telephone  to  a  number 
in  Fifth  Avenue." 

26 


402        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

She  went  toward  the  telephone. 

"Oh,  but  I  can't  keep  you  at  home.  It  is  too  outrageous!" 
he  said. 

"Give  me  time  to  telephone!"  she  answered,  looking  round 
at  him  over  her  shoulder. 

"You  are  much  too  kind!"  he  said.  "I — I  looked  in  to 
settle  about  your  coming  to  that  rehearsal." 

She  got  on  to  the  number  in  Fifth  Avenue  and  spoke 
through  the  telephone  softly. 

"There!  That's  done!  And  now  help  me  to  order  a 
dinner  for — "  she  glanced  at  him  shrewdly — "a  tired  genius." 

Claude  smiled.  They  consulted  together,  amicably  arrang- 
ing the  menu. 

The  dinner  was  brought  quickly,  and  they  sat  down,  one  on 
each  side  of  a  round  table  decorated  with  lilies  of  the  valley. 

"I'm  playing  traitress  to-night,"  Mrs.  Shiffney  said  in  her 
deep  voice.  "I  was  to  have  been  at  a  dinner  arranged  for 
the  Senniers  by  Mrs.  Algernon  Batsford." 

"I  am  so  ashamed." 

"Or  are  you  a  little  bit  flattered?" 

"Both,  perhaps." 

"A  divinely  complex  condition.  Tell  me  about  the  re- 
hearsal." 

They  plunged  into  a  discussion  on  music.  Mrs.  Shiffney 
was  a  past  mistress  in  the  art  of  subtle  flattery,  when  she  chose 
to  be.  And  she  always  chose  to  be,  in  the  service  of  her  ca- 
prices. She  understood  well  the  vanity  of  the  artistic  tempera- 
ment. She  even  understood  its  reverse  side,  which  was  strongly 
developed  in  Claude.  Her  efforts  were  dedicated  to  the  dual 
temperament,  and  beautifully.  The  discussion  was  long  and 
animated,  lasting  all  through  dinner  to  the  time  of  Turkish 
coffee.  Claude  forgot  his  fatigue,  and  Mrs.  Shiffney  almost 
forgot  her  caprice.  She  became  genuinely  interested  in  the 
discussion  merely  as  a  discussion.  Her  sincere  passion  for 
art  got  the  upper  hand  in  her.  And  this  made  her  the  more 
delightful.  The  evening  fled  and  its  feet  were  winged. 

"I  was  going  to  a  party  at  Eve  Inness's,"  she  said,  when 
half-past  ten  chimed  in  the  clock  on  her  writing-table.  "But 
I'll  give  it  up." 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        403 

Claude  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"Really  you  must  not.  I  must  go.  I  must  really.  I 
know  I  need  any  amount  of  sleep  to  make  up  arrears." 

"You  don't  look  sleepy." 

"How  could  I,  in  New  York?" 

"We  don't  need  to  sleep  here.  Sit  down  again.  Eve 
Inness  is  quite  definitely  given  up." 

"But— 

Mrs.  Shiffney  looked  at  him,  and  he  sat  down.  At  that 
moment  he  remembered  the  morning  in  the  pine  wood  at 
Constantine,  and  how  she  had  looked  at  him  then.  He 
remembered,  too,  and  clearly,  his  own  recoil.  Now  he  believed 
that  she  had  been  very  treacherous  in  regard  to  him.  Yet 
he  felt  happier  with  her,  and  even  at  this  moment  as  he  re- 
turned her  look  he  thought,  "Whatever  she  may  have  felt  at 
Constantine,  I  believe  I  have  won  her  over  to  my  side  now. 
I  have  power.  She  always  felt  it.  She  feels  it  now  more  than 
ever."  And  abruptly  he  said: 

"You  are  on  Sennier's  side.  And  really  it  is  a  sort  of 
battle  here.  The  two  managements  have  turned  it  into  a 
battle.  We've  been  talking  all  this  evening  of  music.  Do 
you  really  wish  me  to  succeed?  I  think — "  he  paused.  He 
was  on  the  edge  of  accusing  her  of  treachery  at  Constantine. 
But  he  decided  not  to  do  so,  and  continued,  "What  I  mean  is, 
do  you  genuinely  care  whether  I  succeed  or  not?" 

After  a  minute  Mrs.  Shiffney  said: 

"Perhaps  I  care  even  more  than  Charmian  does." 

Her  large  and  intelligent  eyes  were  still  fixed  upon  Claude. 
She  looked  absolutely  self-possessed,  yet  as  if  she  were  feeling 
something  strongly,  and  meant  him  to  be  aware  of  that.  And 
she  believed  that  just  then  it  depended  upon  Claude  whether 
she  cared  for  his  success  or  desired  his  failure.  His  long  re- 
sistance to  her  influence,  followed  by  this  partial  yielding  to  it, 
had  begun  to  irritate  her  capricious  nature  intensely.  And 
this  irritation,  if  prolonged,  might  give  birth  in  her  either  to  a 
really  violent  passion,  of  the  burning  straw  species,  for  Claude, 
or  to  an  active  hatred  of  him.  At  this  moment  she  knew 
this. 

"Perhaps  I  care  too  much!"  she  said. 


404        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

And  instantly,  as  at  Constantine,  when  the  reality  of  her 
nature  deliberately  made  itself  apparent,  with  intention  calling 
to  him,  Claude  felt  the  invincible  recoil  within  him,  the  back- 
ward movement  of  his  true  self.  The  spurious  vanity  of  the 
male  died  within  him.  The  feverish  pleasure  in  proving  his 
power  died.  And  all  that  was  left  for  the  moment  was  the 
dominant  sense  of  honor,  of  what  he  owed  to  Charmian.  Mrs. 
Shiffney  would  have  called  this  "the  shriek  of  the  Puritan." 
It  was  certainly  the  cry  of  the  real  man  in  Claude.  And  he  had 
to  heed  it.  But  he  loathed  himself  at  this  moment.  And  he 
felt  that  he  had  given  Mrs.  Shiflfney  the  right  to  hate  him  for 
ever. 

"My  weakness  is  my  curse!"  he  thought.  "It  makes  me 
utterly  contemptible.  I  must  slay  it!" 

Desperation  seized  him.     Abruptly  he  got  up. 

"You  are  much  too  kind!"  he  said,  scarcely  knowing  what 
he  was  saying.     "I  can  never  be  grateful  enough  to  you. 
If  I — if  I  do  succeed,  I  shall  know  at  any  rate  that  one — ' 
He  met  her  eyes  and  stopped. 

"Good-night!"  she  said.  "I'm  afraid  I  must  send  you 
away  now,  for  I  believe  I  will  run  in  for  a  minute  to  Eve  Inness, 
after  all." 

As  Claude  descended  to  the  hall  he  knew  that  he  had  left 
an  enemy  behind  him. 

But  the  knowledge  which  really  troubled  him  was  that  he 
deserved  to  have  Mrs.  Shiffney  for  an  enemy. 

His  own  self,  his  own  manhood,  whipped  him. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

THAT   night,   when   Claude  arrived   at   the   St.  Regis, 
Charmian  was  still  out.    She  did  not  return  till  just  after 
midnight.     When  she  came  into  the  sitting-room  she 
found  Claude  in  an  armchair  near  the  window,  which  was 
slightly  open.     He  had  no  book  or  paper,  and  seemed  to  be 
listening  to  something. 

"Claudie!     Why,  what  are  you  doing?"  she  asked. 

"Nothing,"  he  said. 

"But  the  window!    Aren't  you  catching  cold?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  I  believe  you  were  listening  to  'New  York'!"  she  continued, 
taking  off  her  cloak. 

"I  was." 

She  put  her  cloak  down  on  the  sofa. 

"Listening  for  the  verdict?"  she  said.     "Trying  to  divine 
what  it  will  be?" 

"  Something  like  that,  perhaps." 

"There  is  still  a  good  deal  of  the  child  in  you,  Claude," 
she  said  seriously,  but  fondly  too. 

"  Is  there?     Too  much  perhaps,"  he  answered  in  a  low  voice. 

"  What's  the  matter?     Are  you  feeling  depressed?" 

She  sat  down  close  to  him. 

"Are  you  doubtful,  anxious  to-night?" 

"  Well,  this  is  rather  an  anxious  time.    The  strain  is  strong." 

"But  you  are  strong,  too!" 

"I!"  he  exclaimed. 

And  there  was  in  his  voice  a  sound  of  great  bitterness. 

"Yes,  I  think  you  are.    I  know  you  are." 

"You  have  very  little  reason  for  knowing  such  a  thing, "he 
answered,  still  with  bitterness. 

"You  mean?"— she  was  looking  at  him  almost  furtively. 
"Whatever  you  mean,"  she  concluded,  "I  can't  help  it!  I 

405 


406        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

think  you  are.  Or  perhaps  I  really  mean  that  I  think  you 
would  be." 

"Would  be!    When?" 

"Oh!  I  don't  know!  In  a  great  moment,  a  terrible 
moment  perhaps!" 

She  dropped  her ,  eyes,  and  began  slowly  to  pull  off  her 
gloves. 

"Talking  of  the  verdict,"  she  said  presently,  glancing  to- 
ward the  still  open  window,  "is  the  date  of  the  first  full 
rehearsal  fixed?" 

"Yes.     We  decided  on  it  this  evening  at  the  theater." 

"When  is  it  to  be?" 

"Next  Friday  night.  There's  no  performance  that  night. 
We  begin  at  six.  I  daresay  we  shall  get  through  about  six 
the  next  morning." 

"Friday!  Have  you — I  mean,  are  you  going  to  ask  Mrs. 
Shiffney?" 

During  their  long  and  intimate  talk  at  dinner  that  evening 
Claude  had  invited  Mrs.  Shiffney  to  be  present  at  the  rehearsal, 
and  she  had  accepted.  Now  it  suddenly  occurred  to  him  that 
she  was  his  enemy.  Would  she  still  come  after  what  had 
occurred  just  before  he  left  her? 

"I  have  asked  her!"  he  almost  blurted  out. 

"Already!     When?" 

"I  went  round  to  the  Ritz-Carlton  to-night." 

"Was  she  in?" 

"Yes.  But  she  was — but  she  went  out  afterward,  to 
Mrs.  Inness." 

"Oh!    And  did  she  accept? " 

"Yes." 

Charmian's  eyes  were  fixed  upon  Claude.  He  saw  by 
their  expression  that  she  suspected  something,  or  that  she 
had  divined  a  secret  between  him  and  Mrs.  Shiffney.  She 
looked  suddenly  alert,  and  her  lips  seemed  to  harden,  giving 
her  face  a  strained  and  not  pleasant  expression. 

"How  is  she  coming?"  she  asked. 

"How?" 

"Yes.     Are  you  going  to  fetch  her?    Or  am  I  to?" 

"That  wasn't  decided.     Nothing  was  said  about  that." 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        407 

"  She  can't  just  walk  in  alone,  without  a  card  to  admit  her, 
or  anything.  You  know  what  an  autocrat  Mr.  Crayford  is." 

"But  he  knows  Mrs.  Shiffney.  We  met  him  first  at  her 
house  in  London,  don't  you  remember?" 

"You  don't  suppose  he's  going  to  let  everyone  he  knows 
into  a  rehearsal,  do  you?" 

Claude  got  up  from  his  chair. 

"No.  But — Charmian,  I  can't  think  of  all  these  details. 
I  can't— I  can't!" 

There  was  a  sharp  edge  to  his  voice. 

"I  have  too  much  to  carry  in  my  mind  just  now." 

"I  know,"  she  said,  softening.  "I  didn't  mean" — the 
alert  expression,  which  for  an  instant  had  vanished,  returned 
to  her  face — "I  only  wanted  to  know — " 

"Please  don't  ask  me  any  more!  I  asked  Mrs.  Shiffney  to 
come  to  the  rehearsal.  She  said  she  would.  Then  we  talked 
of  other  things." 

"Other  things!    Then  you  stayed  some  time?" 

"  A  little  while.     If  she  really  wishes  to  be  at  the  rehearsal —  " 

"But  we  know  she  wishes  it!" 

"Well,  then,  she  will  suggest  coming  with  you,  or  she  may 
write  to  Crayford.  I'm  not  going  to  do  anything  more  about 
it." 

His  face  was  stern,  grim. 

"Now  I'll  shut  the  window,"  he  added,  "or  you'll  catch 
cold  in  that  low  dress." 

He  was  moving  to  the  window  when  she  caught  at  his 
hand  and  detained  him. 

"  Would  you  care  if  I  did?    Would  you  care  if  I  were  ill?  " 

"Of  course  I  should." 

"  Would  you  care  if  I— 

She  did  not  finish  the  sentence,  but  still  held  his  hand  closely 
in  hers.  In  her  hand-grasp  Claude  felt  jealousy,  warm,  fiery, 
a  thing  almost  strangely  vital. 

"  Does  she — is  she  getting  to  love  me  as  I  wish  to  be  loved?  " 

The  question  flashed  through  his  mind.  At  that  moment 
he  was  very  glad  that  he  had  never  betrayed  Charmian,  very 
glad  of  the  Puritan  in  him  which  perhaps  many  women  would 
jeer  at,  did  they  know  of  its  existence. 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

"Charmian,"  he  said,  "let  me  shut  the  window." 
"Yes,  yes;  of  course." 
She  let  his  hand  go. 

" It  is  better  not  to  listen  to  the  voices,-1'  she  added.     "They 
make  one  feel  too  much!" 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

NOTHING  more  was  said  by  Charmian  or  Claude  about 
Mrs.  Shiff  ney  and  the  rehearsal.  Mrs.  Shiff  ney  made  no 
sign.  The  rehearsals  of  Jacques  Sennier's  new  opera  were 
being  pressed  forward  almost  furiously,  and  no  doubt  she  had 
little  free  time.  Claude  wondered  very  much  what  she  would 
do,  debated  the  question  with  himself.  Surely  now  she  would 
not  wish  to  come  to  his  rehearsal!  And  even  if  she  did  wish 
to  be  present,  surely  she  would  not  try  to  come  now!  But 
women  are  not  easily  to  be  read.  Claude  was  aware  that  he 
could  not  divine  what  Mrs.  Shiffney  would  do.  He  thought, 
however,  that  it  was  unlikely  she  would  come.  He  thought 
also  that  he  wished  her  not  to  come. 

Nevertheless,  when  the  darkness  gathered  over  New  York 
on  Friday  evening,  he  found  himself  wishing  strongly,  even 
almost  painfully,  for  her  verdict. 

Charmian  was  greatly  excited.  Claude  still  kept  up  his 
successful  pretense  of  bold  self-confidence.  He  had  to  strain 
every  nerve  to  conceal  his  natural  sensitiveness.  But  although 
he  was  racked  by  anxiety,  and  something  else,  he  did  not  show 
it.  Charmian  was  astonished  by  his  apparent  serenity  now 
that  the  hour  full  of  fate  was  approaching.  She  admired  him 
more  than  ever.  She  even  wondered  at  him,  remembering 
moments,  not  far  off,  when  he  had  shown  a  sort  of  furtive 
bitterness,  or  weariness,  or  depression,  when  she  had  partially 
divined  a  blackness  of  the  depths.  Now  his  self-confidence 
lifted  her,  and  she  told  him  so. 

"There's  an  atmosphere  of  success  round  you,"  she  said. 

"  Why  not?  We  are  going  to  reap  the  fruits  of  our  labors," 
he  replied. 

"  But  even  Alston  is  terribly  nervous  to-day." 

"Is  he?     My  hand  is  as  steady  as  a  rock." 

He  held  it  out,  by  a  fierce  effort  kept  it  perfectly  still  for  a 
moment,  then  let  it  drop  against  his  side. 

409 


410        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

The  bells  of  St.  Patrick's  Cathedral  chimed  five  o'clock. 

"Only  an  hour  and  we  begin!"  said  Charmian.  "Oh, 
Claude!  This  is  almost  worse  than  the  performance." 

"Why?" 

"I  don't  know.  Perhaps  because  it  won't  be  final.  And 
then  they  say  at  dress  rehearsals  things  always  go  badly,  and 
everyone  thinks  the  piece,  or  the  opera,  is  bound  to  be  a  failure. 
I  feel  wrinkles  and  gray  hairs  pouring  over  me  in  spite  of  your 
self-possession.  I  can't  help  it!" 

She  forced  a  laugh.    She  was  walking  about  the  room. 

"I'm  devoured  by  nerves,  I  suppose!"  she  exclaimed. 
"  By  the  way,  hasn't  Mrs.  Shiff ney  written  about  coming  to- 
night?" 

"No." 

"You  haven't  seen  her  again?" 

"Oh,  no!" 

"How  very  odd!  Do  you  suppose  she  will  try  to  get 
in?" 

"How  can  I  tell?" 

"But  isn't  it  strange,  after  her  making  such  a  fuss  about 
coming — this  silence?" 

"Probably  she's  immersed  in  Sennier's  opera  and  won't 
bother  about  mine." 

"Women  always  bother." 

There  was  a  "b-r-r-r!"  in  the  lobby.  Charmian  started 
violently. 

"What  can  that  be?" 

Claude  went  to  the  door,  and  returned  with  Armand 
Gillier. 

"Oh,  Monsieur  Gillier!" 

Charmian  looked  at  Gillier's  large  and  excited  eyes. 

"You  are  coming  with  us?" 

"If  you  allow  me,  madame!"  said  Gillier  formally,  bowing 
over  her  hand.  "  It  seems  to  me  that  the  collaborators  should 
go  together." 

"Of  course.  It's  still  early,  but  we  may  as  well  start.  The 
theater's  pulling  at  me — pulling!" 

"My  wife's  quite  strung  up!"  said  Claude,  smiling. 

"And  Claude  is  disgustingly  cool!"  said  Charmian. 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        411 

Gillier  looked  hard  at  Claude,  and  Charmian  thought  she 
detected  admiration  in  his  eyes. 

"Men  need  to  be  cool  when  the  critical  moment  is  at  hand," 
he  remarked.  "I  learned  that  long  ago  in  Algeria." 

"Then  you  are  not  nervous  now?" 

"Nerves  are  for  women!"  he  returned. 

But  the  expression  in  his  face  belied  his  words. 

"Claude  is  cooler  than  he  is!"  Charmian  thought. 

She  went  to  put  on  her  hat  and  her  sealskin  coat.  She 
longed,  yet  dreaded  to  start. 

When  they  arrived  at  the  stage-door  of  the  Opera  House 
the  dark  young  man  came  from  his  office  on  the  right  with 
his  hands  full  of  letters,  and,  smiling,  distributed  them  to 
Charmian,  Claude  and  Gillier. 

"It  will  be  a  go!"  he  said,  in  a  clear  voice.  "Everyone 
says  so.  Mr.  Crayford  is  up  in  his  office.  He  wants  to  see 
Mr.  Heath.  There's  the  elevator!" 

At  this  moment  the  lift  appeared,  sinking  from  the  upper 
regions  under  the  guidance  of  a  smiling  colored  man. 

"I'll  come  up  with  you,  Claudie.  Are  you  going  on  the 
stage,  Monsieur  Gillier?" 

"No,  madame,  not  yet.    I  must  speak  to  Mademoiselle 
Mar  don  about  the  Ouled  Na'il  scene." 

People  were  hurrying  in,  looking  preoccupied.  In  a  small 
abode  on  the  left,  a  little  way  from  the  outer  door,  an  elderly 
man  in  uniform,  with  a  square  gray  beard,  sat  staring  out 
through  a  small  window,  with  a  cautious  and  important 
air. 

Charmian  and  Claude  stepped  into  the  lift,  holding  their 
letters.  As  they  shot  up  they  both  glanced  hastily  at  the 
addresses. 

' '  Nothing  from  Adelaide  Shiffney ! ' '  said  Charmian.  ' '  Have 
you  got  anything?" 

"No." 

"Then  she  can't  be  coming." 

"It  seems  not." 

"I — then  we  shan't  have  the  verdict  in  advance." 

The  lift  stopped,  and  they  got  out. 

"If  we  had  it  would  probably  have  been  a  wrong  one," 


412        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

said  Claude.     "The  only  real  verdict  is  the  one  the  great 
public  gives." 

"Yes,  of  course.     But,  still—" 

"Hulloh,  little  lady!    So  you're  sticking  to  the  ship  till 
she's  safe  in  port!" 

Crayford  met  them  in  the  doorway  of  his  large  and  elab- 
orately furnished  sanctum. 

"Come  right  in!  There's  a  lot  to  talk  about.  Shut  the 
door,  Harry.  Now,  Mulworth,  let's  get  to  business.  What 
is  it  that  is  wrong  with  the  music  to  go  with  the  Fakir  scene?  " 

At  six  o'clock  the  rehearsal  had  not  begun.  At  six-thirty 
it  had  not  begun.  The  orchestra  was  there,  sunk  out  of  sight 
and  filling  the  dimness  with  the  sounds  of  tuning.  But  the 
great  curtain  was  down.  And  from  behind  it  came  shouting 
voices,  noises  of  steps,  loud  and  persistent  hammerings. 

A  very  few  people  were  scattered  about  in  the  huge  space 
which  contained  the  stalls,  some  nondescript  men,  whispering 
to  each  other,  or  yawning  and  staring  vaguely;  and  five  or 
six  women  who  looked  more  alert  and  vivacious.  There  was 
no  one  visible  in  the  shrouded  boxes.  The  lights  were  kept 
very  low. 

The  sound  of  hammering  continued  and  became  louder.  A 
sort  of  deadness  and  strange  weariness  seemed  to  brood  in  the 
air,  as  if  the  great  monster  were  in  a  sinister  and  heavy  mood, 
full  of  an  almost  malign  lethargy.  The  orchestral  players 
ceased  from  tuning  their  instruments,  and  talked  together  in 
their  sunken  habitation. 

Seven  o'clock  struck  in  the  clocks  of  New  York.  Just  as 
the  chimes  died  away,  Mrs.  Shiffney  drew  up  at  the  stage-door 
in  a  smart  white  motor-car.  She  was  accompanied  by  a  very 
tall  and  big  man,  with  a  robust  air  of  self-confidence,  and  a 
face  that  was  clean-shaven  and  definitely  American. 

"I  don't  suppose  they've  begun  yet,"  she  said,  as  she  got 
out  and  walked  slowly  across  the  pavement,  warmly  wrapped 
up  in  a  marvellous  black  sable  coat.  "Have  you  got  your 
card,  Jon  son?" 

"Here!"  said  the  big  man  in  a  big  voice. 

The  dark  young  man  came  from  his  office.  On  seeing  the 
big  man  he  started,  and  looked  impressed. 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        413 

"Mr.  Crayford  here?"  said  the  big  man. 
"I  think  he's  on  the  stage." 

"Could  you  be  good  enough  to  send  him  in  my  card? 
There's  some  writing  on  the  back.  And  here's  a  note  from 
this  lady." 

"Certainly,  with  pleasure,"  said  the  young  man,  with 
his  cheerful  smile.  "Come  right  into  the  office,  if  you 
will!" 

"Hulloh!"  said  Crayford,  a  moment  later  to  Claude. 
"Here's  Mrs.  Shiffney  wants  to  be  let  in  to  the  rehearsal! 
And  whom  with,  d'you  think?" 

"  Whom  ?  "  asked  Claude  quickly.    "  Not  Madame  Sennier  ?" 

"Jonson  Ramer." 

"The  financier?" 

"Our  biggest!  My  boy,  you're  booming!  Old  Jonson 
Ramer  asking  to  come  in  to  our  rehearsal!  We'll  have  that 
all  over  the  States  to-morrow  morning.  Where's  Cane?" 

"I'll  fetch  him,  sir!"  said  a  thin  boy  standing  by. 

"Are  you  going  to  let  them  in?" 

"Am  I  going  to!  Finnigan,  go  and  take  the  lady  and 
Mr.  Ramer  to  any  box  they  like.  Ah,  Cane!  Here's  some- 
thing for  you  to  let  yourself  out  over!" 

Mr.  Cane  read  Ramer's  card  and  looked  radiant. 

"Well,  I'm—!" 

"I  should  think  you  are!  Go  and  spread  it.  This  boy's 
getting  compliments  enough  to  turn  him  silly." 

And  Crayford  clapped  Claude  almost  affectionately  on  the 
shoulder. 

"Now  then,  Mulworth!"  he  roared,  with  a  complete 
change  of  manner.  "When  in  thunder  are  we  going  to  have 
that  curtain  up?" 

Claude  turned  away.  He  wished  to  find  Charmian,  to  tell 
her  that  Mrs.  Shiffney  had  come  and  had  brought  Jonson 
Ramer  with  her.  But  he  did  not  know  where  she  was.  As 
he  came  off  the  stage  into  the  wings  he  met  Alston  Lake  dressed 
for  his  part  of  an  officer  of  Spahis. 

"I  say,  Claude,  have  you  heard?" 

"What?" 

"Jonson  Ramer's  here  for  the  rehearsal!" 


414        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

"I  know.     Can  you  tell  me  where  Charmian  is?" 

"Haven't  an  ideal  There's  the  prelude  beginning!  My! 
Where  are  my  formamints?" 

Charmian  meanwhile  had  gone  into  the  theater  with  a 
dressmaker,  who  had  come  to  see  the  effect  of  Enid  Mar  don's 
costumes  which  she  had  "created."  Charmian  and  the 
dressmaker,  a  massive  and  handsome  woman,  were  sitting 
together  in  the  stalls,  discussing  Enid  Mardon's  caprices. 

"She  tore  the  dress  to  pieces,"  said  the  dressmaker. 
"She  made  rags  of  it,  and  then  pinned  it  together  all  wrong, 
and  said  to  me — to  me! — that  now  it  began  to  look  like  an 
Ouled  Nail  girl's  costume.  I  told  her  if  she  liked  to  face 
Noo  York—" 

"H'sh-sh!"  whispered  Charmian.  "There's  the  prelude 
beginning  at  last.  She's  not  going  to — ?" 

"No.  Of  course  she  had  to  come  back  to  my  original 
idea!" 

And  the  dressmaker  pressed  a  large  handkerchief  against 
her  handsome  nose,  savored  the  last  new  perfume,  and  leaned 
back  in  her  stall  magisterially  with  a  faint  smile. 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  Mrs.  Shiffney  came  into  a  box 
at  the  back  of  the  stalls  followed  by  Jonson  Ramer.  Without 
taking  off  her  sable  coat  she  sat  down  in  a  corner  and  looked 
quickly  over  the  obscure  space  before  her.  Immediately  she 
saw  Charmian  and  the  dressmaker,  who  sat  within  a  few  yards 
of  her.  Claude  was  not  visible.  Mrs.  Shiffney  sat  back  a 
little  farther  in  the  box,  and  whispered  to  Mr.  Ramer. 

"Are  you  really  going  to  join  the  Directorate  of  the 
Metropolitan?"  she  said. 

"I  may,  when  this  season's  over." 

"Does  Crayford  know  it?" 

Mr.  Ramer  shook  his  massive  and  important  head. 

"I'm  not  certain  of  it  myself,"  he  observed,  with  a  smile, 

"And  if  you  do  join?" 

"If  I  decide  to  join" — he  glanced  round  the  enormous 
empty  house.  "I  think  I  should  buy  Crayford  out  of  here." 

"Would  he  go?" 

"I  think  he  might — for  a  price." 

"If  this  new  man  turns  out  to  be  worth  while,  I  suppose 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        415 

you  would  take  him  over  as  one  of  the— what  are  they  called—- 
one of  the  assets?" 

"Ha!"  He  leaned  toward  her,  and  just  touched  her 
arm  with  one  of  his  powerful  hands.  "You  must  tell  me 
to-night  whether  he  is  going  to  be  worth  while." 

"Won't  you  know?" 

"I  might  when  I  got  him  before  a  New  York  audience. 
But  you  are  more  likely  to  know  to-night." 

"  I  have  got  rather  a  flair,  I  believe.  Now — I'll  taste  the 
new  work." 

She  did  not  speak  again,  but  gave  herself  up  to  attention, 
though  her  mind  was  often  with  the  woman  in  the  sealskin 
coat  who  sat  so  near  to  her.  Had  Claude  said  anything  to 
that  woman?  There  was  very  little  to  say.  But — had  he 
said  it?  She  wondered  on  what  terms  Charmian  and  Claude 
were,  whether  the  Puritan  had  ever  found  any  passion  for 
the  Charmian-creature.  Claude's  music  broke  in  upon  her 
questionings. 

Mrs.  Shiffney  had  a  retentive  as  well  as  a  swift  mind,  and 
she  remembered  every  detail  of  Gillier's  powerful,  almost 
brutal  libretto.  In  the  reading  it  had  transported  her  into  a 
wild  life,  in  a  land  where  there  is  still  romance,  still  strangeness 
— a  land  upon  which  civilization  has  not  yet  fastened  its 
padded  claw.  And  she  had  imagined  the  impression  which 
this  glimpse  of  an  ardent  and  bold  life  might  produce  upon 
highly  civilized  people,  like  herself,  if  it  were  helped  by 
powerful  music. 

Now  she  listened,  waited,  remembering  her  visits  to 
Mullion  House,  the  night  in  the  cafe  by  the  city  wall  when 
Said  Hitani  and  his  Arabs  played,  the  hour  of  sun  in  the  pine 
wood  above  the  great  ravine,  other  hours  in  New  York.  There 
was  something  in  Heath  that  she  had  wanted,  that  she  wanted 
still,  though  part  of  her  sneered  at  him,  laughed  at  him,  had  a 
worldly  contempt  for  him,  though  another  part  of  her  almost 
hated  him.  She  desired  a  fiasco  for  him.  Nevertheless  the 
art  feeling  within  her,  and  the  greedy  emotional  side  of  her, 
demanded  the  success  of  his  effort  just  now,  because  she  was 
listening,  because  she  hated  to  be  bored,  because  the  libretto 
was  fine.  The  artistic  side  of  her  nature  was  in  strong  conflict 


416        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

with  the  capricious  and  sensual  side  that  evening.  But  she 
looked — for  Jonson  Ramer — coolly  self-possessed  and  discrim- 
inating as  she  sat  very  still  in  the  shadow. 

"That's  a  fine  voice!"  murmured  Ramer  presently. 

Alston  Lake  was  singing. 

"Yes.  I've  heard  him  in  London.  But  he  seems  to  have 
come  on  wonderfully." 

"It's  an  operatic  voice." 

When  Alston  Lake  went  off  the  stage  Ramer  remarked: 

"That's  a  fellow  to  watch." 

"  Crayford's  very  clever  at  discovering  singers." 

"Almost  too  clever  for  the  Metropolitan,  eh?" 

"Enid  Mardon  looks  wonderful." 

Silence  fell  upon  them  again. 

The  dressmaker  had  got  up  from  her  seat  and  slipped  away 
into  the  darkness,  after  examining  Enid  Mardon's  costume 
for  two  or  three  minutes  through  a  small  but  powerful  opera- 
glass.  Charmian  was  now  quite  alone. 

While  the  massive  woman  was  with  her  Charmian  had  been 
unconscious  of  any  agitating,  or  disturbing,  influence  in  her 
neighborhood.  The  dressmaker  had  probably  a  strong 
personality.  Very  soon  after  she  had  gone  Charmian  began 
to  feel  curiously  uneasy,  despite  her  intense  interest  in  the 
music,  and  in  all  that  was  happening  on  the  stage.  She 
glanced  along  the  stalls.  No  one  was  sitting  in  a  line  with  her. 
In  front  of  her  she  saw  only  the  few  people  who  had  already 
taken  their  places  when  the  curtain  went  up.  She  gave  her 
attention  again  to  the  stage,  but  only  with  a  strong  effort. 
And  very  soon  she  was  again  compelled  by  this  strange  un- 
easiness to  look  about  the  theater.  Now  she  felt  certain  that 
somebody  whom  she  had  not  yet  seen,  but  who  was  near  to 
her,  was  disturbing  her.  And  she  thought,  "Claude  must 
have  come  in!"  On  this  thought  she  turned  round  rather 
sharply,  and  looked  behind  her  at  the  boxes.  She  did  not 
actually  see  anyone.  But  it  seemed  to  her  that,  as  she  turned 
and  looked,  something  moved  back  in  a  box  very  near  to  her, 
on  her  left.  And  immediately  she  felt  certain  that  that  box 
was  occupied. 

"Adelaide  Shiffney's  there!" 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        417 

Suddenly  that  certainty  took  possession  of  her.  And 
Claude?  Where  was  he? 

Hitherto  she  had  supposed  that  Claude  was  behind  the 
scenes,  or  perhaps  in  the  orchestra  sitting  near  the  conductor, 
Meroni;  but  now  jealousy  sprang  up  in  her.  If  Claude  were 
with  Adelaide  Shiffney  in  that  box  while  she  sat  alone!  If 
Claude  had  really  known  all  the  time  that  Adelaide  Shiffney 
was  coming  and  had  not  told  her,  Charmian!  Unreason, 
which  is  the  offspring  of  jealousy,  filled  her  mind.  She  burned 
with  anger. 

"I  know  he  is  in  that  box  with  her!"  she  thought.  "And 
he  did  not  tell  me  she  was  coming  because  he  wanted  to  be 
with  her  at  the  rehearsal  and  not  with  me." 

And  suddenly  her  intense,  her  painful  interest  in  the  opera 
faded  away  out  of  her.  She  was  concentrated  upon  the  purely 
human  things.  Her  imagination  of  a  possibility,  which  her 
jealousy  already  proclaimed  a  certainty,  blotted  out  even  the 
opera.  Woman,  man — the  intentness  of  the  heart  came 
upon  her,  like  a  wave  creeping  all  over  her,  blotting  out 
landmarks. 

The  curtain  fell  on  the  first  act.  It  had  gone  well,  un- 
expectedly well.  Behind  the  scenes  there  were  congratula- 
tions. Crayf ord  was  radiant.  Mr.  Mulworth  wiped  his  brow 
fanatically,  but  looked  almost  human  as  he  spoke  in  a  hoarse 
remnant  of  voice  to  a  master  carpenter.  Enid  Mardon  went 
off  the  stage  with  the  massive  dressmaker  in  almost  amicable 
conversation.  Meroni,  the  Milanese  conductor,  mounted  up 
from  his  place  in  the  subterranean  regions,  smiling  brilliantly 
and  twisting  his  black  moustaches.  Alston  Lake  had  got  rid 
of  his  nervousness.  He  knew  he  had  done  well  and  was  more 
"mad"  about  the  opera  than  ever. 

"It's  the  bulliest  thing  there's  been  in  New  York  in 
years!"  he  exclamied,  as  he  went  to  his  dressing-room,  where 
he  found  Claude,  who  had  been  sitting  in  the  orchestra,  and 
who  had  now  hurried  round  to  ask  the  singers  how  they  felt 
in  their  parts.  Gillier  was  with  Miss  Mardon,  at  whose  feet 
he  was  laying  his  homage. 

Meanwhile  Charmian  was  still  quite  alone. 

She  sat  for  a  moment  after  the  curtain  fell. 

27 


418        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

"Surely  Claude  will  come  now!"  she  said  to  herself.  "In 
decency  he  must  come!" 

But  no  one  came,  and  anger,  the  sense  of  desertion,  grew 
in  her  till  she  was  unable  to  sit  still  any  longer.  She  got 
up,  turned,  and  again  looked  toward  the  box  in  which  she  had 
fancied  that  she  saw  something  move.  Now  she  saw  a  woman's 
arm  and  hand,  a  bit  of  a  woman's  shoulder.  Somebody,  a 
woman,  wearing  sables,  was  in  the  box  turning  round,  evidently 
in  conversation  with  another  person  who  was  hidden. 

Adelaide  Shiffney  owned  wonderful  sables. 

Without  further  hesitation  Charmian,  driven,  made  her 
way  to  the  exit  from  the  stalls  on  her  right,  went  out  and 
found  herself  in  the  blackness  of  the  huge  corridor  running 
behind  the  ground- tier  boxes.  Before  leaving  the  stalls  she 
had  tried  to  locate  the  box,  and  thought  that  she  had  located 
it.  She  meant  to  go  into  it  without  knocking,  as  one  who 
supposed  it  to  be  empty.  Now,  with  a  feverish  hand  she  felt 
for  a  door-handle.  She  found  one,  turned  it,  and  went  into 
an  empty  box.  Standing  still  in  it,  she  listened  and  heard  a 
woman's  voice  that  she  knew  say: 

"I  dare  say.  But  I  don't  mean  to  say  anything  yet.  I 
have  my  reputation  to  take  care  of,  you  must  remember." 

The  words  ended  in  a  little  laugh. 

"It  is  Adelaide.  She's  in  the  next  box!"  said  Charmian 
to  herself. 

For  a  moment  a  horrible  idea  suggested  itself  to  her.  She 
thought  of  sitting  down  very  softly  and  of  eavesdropping. 
But  the  better  part  of  her  at  once  rebelled  against  this  idea, 
and  without  hesitation  she  slipped  out  of  the  box.  She  stood 
still  in  the  corridor  for  three  or  four  minutes.  The  fact  that 
she  had  seriously  thought  of  eavesdropping  almost  frightened 
her,  and  she  was  trying  to  come  to  the  resolve  to  abandon  her 
project  of  interrupting  Mrs.  Shiffney's  conversation  with  the 
hidden  person  who,  she  felt  sure,  must  be  Claude.  Presently 
she  walked  away  a  few  steps,  going  toward  the  entrance. 
Then  she  stopped  again. 

"I  have  my  reputation  to  take  care  of,  you  must 
remember." 

Adelaide  Shiffney's  words  kept  passing  through  her  mind. 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        419 

What  had  Claude  said  to  evoke  such  words?  In  the  darkness, 
Charmian,  with  a  strong  and  excited  imagination,  conceived 
Claude  faithless  to  her.  She  did  more.  She  conceived  of 
triumph  and  faithlessness  coming  together  into  her  life,  of 
Claude  as  a  famous  man  and  another  woman's  lover.  "  Would 
you  rather  he  remained  obscure  and  entirely  yours?"  a  voice 
seemed  to  say  within  her.  She  did  not  debate  this  question, 
but  again  turned,  made  her  way  to  Mrs.  Shiffney's  box,  which 
she  located  rightly  this  time,  pushed  the  door  and  abruptly 
went  into  it. 

"Hulloh!"  said  a  powerful  and  rather  surprised  voice. 

In  the  semi-obscurity  Charmian  saw  a  very  big  man,  whom 
she  had  never  seen  before,  getting  up  from  a  chair. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  exclaimed,  startled.  "I  didn't 
know — " 

"Charmian!    Is  it  you?" 

Adelaide  Shiffney's  voice  came  from  beyond  the  big  man. 

"Adelaide!    You've  come  to  our  rehearsal!" 

"  Yes.  Let  me  introduce  Mr.  Jonson  Ramer  to  you.  This 
is  Mrs.  Heath,  Jonson,  the  genius's  good  angel.  Sit  down  with 
us  for  a  minute,  Charmian." 

Adelaide  Shiffney's  deep  voice  was  almost  suspiciously 
cordial.  But  Charmian's  sense  of  relief  was  so  great  that 
she  accepted  the  invitation,  and  sat  down  feeling  strangely 
happy. 

But  almost  instantly  with  the  laying  to  rest  of  one  anxiety 
came  the  birth  of  another. 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  of  the  opera?"  she  asked, 
trying  to  speak  carelessly. 

Jonson  Ramer  leaned  toward  her.  He  thought  she  looked 
pretty,  and  he  liked  pretty  women  even  more  than  most 
men  do. 

"Very  original!"  he  said.  "Opens  powerfully.  But  I 
don't  think  we  can  judge  of  it  yet.  It's  going  remarkably 
well." 

"Wonderfully!"  said  Mrs.  Shiffney. 

Charmian  turned  quickly  toward  her.  It  was  Adelaide's 
verdict  that  she  wanted,  not  Jonson  Ramer's. 

"Enid  Mardon's  perfect,"  continued  Mrs.  Shiffney.     "She 


420        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

will  make  a  sensation.  And  the  mise-en-scecne  is  really  ex- 
quisite, not  overloaded.  Crayford  has  evidently  learnt  some- 
thing from  Berlin." 

"How  malicious  Adelaide  is!"  thought  Charmian.  "She 
won't  speak  of  the  music  simply  because  she  knows  I  only 
care  about  that." 

She  talked  for  a  little  while,  sufficiently  mistress  of  herself 
to  charm  Jonson  Ramer.  Then  she  got  up. 

"I  must  run  away.  I  have  so  many  people  to  see  and 
encourage." 

Her  gay  voice  indicated  that  she  needed  no  encourage- 
ment, that  she  was  quite  sure  of  success. 

"We  shall  see  you  at  the  end?"  said  Mrs.  Shiffney. 

"But  will  you  stay?  It  may  be  six  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing," said  Charmian. 

"That  is  a  little  late.    But—" 

At  this  moment  Charmian  saw  Claude  coming  into  the 
stalls  by  the  left  entrance  near  the  stage. 

"Oh,  there's  Claude!"  she  exclaimed,  interrupting  Mrs. 
Shiffney,  and  evidently  not  knowing  that  she  did  so.  "Au 
revoir!  Thank  you  so  much!" 

She  was  gone. 

"Thank  me  so  much!"  said  Mrs.  Shiffney  to  Jonson  Ramer. 
"What  for?  Do  you  know,  Jonson?" 

"Seems  to  me  that  little  woman's  unfashionable — mad 
about  her  own  husband!"  said  Jonson  Ramer. 

The  curtain  went  up  on  the  second  act. 

Claude  had  sat  down  in  the  stalls.  In  a  moment  Charmian 
slipped  into  a  seat  at  his  side  and  touched  his  hand. 

"Claude,  where  have  you  been?" 

Her  long  fingers  closed  on  his  hand. 

"Charmian!" 

He  looked  excited  and  startled.     He  stared  at  her. 

"What's  the  matter?" 

His  face  changed. 

"Nothing.    It's  all  going  well  so  far." 

"Perfectly.    Adelaide  Shiffney's  here." 

"I  know." 

Charmian's  fingers  unclasped. 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        421 

"You've  seen  her?" 

"No,  but  I  heard  she  was  here  with  Jonson  Ramer." 

"Yes.    I've—" 

They  fell  into  silence,  concentrated  upon  the  stage.  In 
a  few  minutes  they  were  joined  by  Gillier,  who  sat  down  just 
behind  them.  With  his  coming  their  attention  was  intensified. 
They  listened  jealously,  attended  as  it  were  with  every  fiber 
of  their  bodies,  as  well  as  with  their  minds,  to  everything  that 
was  happening  in  this  man-created  world. 

Charmian  felt  Gillier  listening,  felt,  far  away  behind  him, 
Adelaide  Shiffney  listening.  Gradually  her  excitement  and 
anxiety  became  painful.  Her  mind  seemed  to  her  to  be  burn- 
ing, not  smouldering  but  flaming.  She  clasped  the  two  arms 
of  her  stall. 

Something  went  wrong  on  the  stage,  and  the  opera  was 
stopped.  The  orchestra  died  away  in  a  sort  of  wailing 
confusion,  which  ceased  on  the  watery  sound  of  a  horn. 
Enid  Mardon  began  speaking  with  concentrated  determination. 
Crayford  and  Mr.  Mulworth  came  upon  the  stage. 

"Where's  Mr.  Heath?  Where's  Mr.  Heath?"  shouted 
Crayford. 

Claude,  who  was  already  standing  up,  hurried  away  to- 
ward the  entrance  and  disappeared.  Charmian  sat  biting 
her  lips  and  tingling  all  over  in  an  acute  exasperation  of  the 
nerves.  Behind  her  Armand  Gillier  sat  in  silence.  Claude 
joined  the  people  on  the  stage,  and  there  was  a  long  col- 
loquy in  which  eventually  Meroni,  the  conductor,  took  part. 
Charmian  presently  heard  Gillier  moving  restlessly  behind 
her.  Then  she  heard  a  snap  of  metal  and  knew  that  he  had 
just  looked  at  his  watch.  What  was  Adelaide  doing?  What 
was  she  thinking?  What  did  she  think  of  this  breakdown? 
Everything  had  been  going  so  well.  But  now  no  doubt 
things  would  go  badly. 

"Will  they  ever  start  again?"  Charmian  asked  herself. 
"What  can  they  be  talking  about?  What  can  Miss  Mardon 
mean  by  those  frantic  gesticulations,  now  by  turning  her  back 
on  Mr.  Crayford  and  Claude?  If  only  people— 

Meroni  left  the  stage.  In  a  moment  the  orchestra  sounded 
once  more.  Charmian  turned  round  instinctively  for  sympathy 


422        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

to  Armand  Gillier,  and  caught  an  unpleasnat  look  in  his  large 
eyes.  Instantly  she  was  on  the  defensive. 

"It's  going  marvellously  for  a  first  full  rehearsal,"  she  said 
to  him.  "  Claude  expected  we  should  be~  here  for  nine  or  ten 
hours  at  the  very  least." 

"Possibly,  madame!"  he  replied. 

He  gnawed  his  moustache.  His  head,  drenched  as  usual 
with  eau-de-quinine,  looked  hard  as  a  bullet.  Charmian 
wondered  what  thoughts,  what  expectations  it  contained. 
But  she  turned  again  to  the  stage  without  saying  anything 
more.  At  that  moment  she  hated  Gillier  for  not  helping  her 
to  be  sanguine.  She  said  to  herself  that  he  had  been  always 
against  both  her  and  Claude.  Of  course  he  would  be  cruelly, 
ferociously  critical  of  Claude's  music,  because  he  was  so  in- 
fatuated with  his  own  libretto.  Angrily  she  dubbed  him  a 
poor  victim  of  megalomania. 

Claude  slipped  into  the  seat  at  her  side,  and  suddenly  she 
felt  comforted,  protected.  But  these  alternations  of  hope  and 
fear  tried  her  nerves.  She  began  to  be  conscious  of  that,  to 
feel  the  intensity  of  the  strain  she  was  undergoing.  Was  not 
the  strain  upon  Claude's  nerves  much  greater?  She  stole  a 
glance  at  his  dark  face,  but  could  not  tell. 

The  second  act  came  to  an  end  without  another  break- 
down, but  Charmian  felt  more  doubtful  about  the  opera  than 
she  had  felt  after  the  first  act.  The  deadness  of  rehearsal 
began  to  creep  upon  her,  almost  like  moss  creeping  over  a 
building.  Claude  hurried  away  again.  And  Mrs.  Haynes,  the 
dressmaker,  took  his  place  and  began  telling  Charmian  a  long 
story  about  Enid  Mardon's  impossible  proceedings.  It  seemed 
that  she  had  picked,  or  torn,  to  pieces  another  dress.  Charmian 
listened,  tried  to  listen,  failed  really  to  listen.  She  seemed  to 
smell  the  theater.  She  felt  both  dull  and  excited. 

"I  said  to  her,  'Madame,  it  is  only  monkeys  who  pick 
everything  to  pieces.'  I  felt  it  was  time  that  I  spoke  out 
strongly." 

Mrs.  Haynes  continued  inexorably.  In  the  well  of  the 
orchestra  a  hidden  flute  suddenly  ran  up  a  scale  ending  on  E 
flat.  Charmian  almost  began  to  writhe  with  secret  irritation. 

"What    a    long    wait!"    she    exclaimed,    ruthlessly    inter- 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        423 

rupting  her  companion.  "I  really  must  go  behind  and  see 
what  is  happening." 

"But  they  must  have  a  quarter  of  an  hour  to  change  the 
set,"  said  the  dressmaker.  "And  it's  only  five  minutes 
since — " 

"Yes,  I  know.  I'll  look  for  you  here  when  the  curtain 
goes  up." 

As  she  made  her  way  toward  the  exit  she  turned  and 
looked  toward  the  boxes.  She  did  not  see  the  distant  figures 
of  Mrs.  Shiffney  and  the  financier.  And  she  stopped  abruptly. 
Could  they  have  gone  away  already?  She  looked  at  her  watch. 
It  was  only  ten  o'clock.  Her  eyes  travelled  swiftly  round  the 
semicircle  of  boxes.  She  saw  no  one.  They  must  have  gone. 
Her  heart  sank,  but  her  cheeks  burned  with  an  angry  flush. 
At  that  moment  she  felt  almost  like  a  mother  who  hears  people 
call  her  child  ugly.  She  stood  for  a  moment,  thinking.  The 
verdict  in  advance!  If  Mrs.  Shiffney  had  gone  away  it  was 
surely  given  already.  Charmian  resolved  that  she  would  say 
nothing  to  Claude.  To  do  so  might  discourage  him.  Her 
cheeks  were  still  burning  when  she  pushed  the  heavy  door 
which  protected  the  mysterious  region  from  the  banality  she 
had  left. 

But  there  she  was  again  carried  from  mood  to  mood. 

She  found  everyone  enthusiastic.  Crayford's  tic  was 
almost  triumphant.  His  little  beard  bristled  with  an  aggres- 
sive optimism. 

"Where's  Claude?"  said  Charmian,  not  seeing  him  and 
thinking  of  Mrs.  Shiffney. 

"Making  some  cuts,"  said  Crayford.  "The  stage  shows 
things  up.  There  are  bits  in  that  act  that  have  got  to  come 
out.  But  it's  a  bully  act  and  will  go  down  as  easily  as  a — 
Hullo,  Jimber!  Sure  you've  got  your  motors  right  for  the 
locust  scene?" 

He  escaped. 

"Mr.  Mulworth!"  cried  Charmian,  seeing  the  producer 
rushing  toward  the  wings,  with  the  perspiration  pouring  over 
his  now  haggard  features.  "Mister  Mulworth!  How  long 
will  Claude  take  making  the  cuts,  do  you  think?" 

"He'll  have  to  stick  at  them  all  through  the  next  act.    If 


424        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

they're  not  made  the  act's  a  fizzle!  Jeremy!  See  here! 
We've  got  to  have  a  pin-light  on  Miss  Mardon  when  she  comes 
down  that  staircase!" 

He  escaped. 

"Signer  Meroni,  I  hear  you  have  to  make  some  cuts! 
D'you  think—" 

"  Signora — ma  si!    Ma  si!  " 

He  escaped. 

"Take  care,  marm,  if  you  please!  Look  out  for  that  sand 
bank!" 

Charmian  withdrew  from  the  frantic  turmoil  of  work,  and 
fled  to  visit  the  singers,  and  drink  in  more  comfort.  The  only 
person  who  dashed  her  hopes  was  Miss  Enid  Mardon,  who 
was  a  great  artist  but  by  nature  a  pessimist,  ultra  critical, 
full  of  satire  and  alarmingly  outspoken. 

"I  tell  you  honestly,"  she  said,  looking  at  Charmian  with 
fatalistic  eyes,  "I  don't  believe  in  it.  But  I'll  do  my 
best." 

"But  I  thought  you  were  delighted  with  the  first  act. 
Surely  Monsieur  Gillier  told  me — " 

"Oh,  I  only  spoke  to  him  about  the  libretto.  That's  a 
masterpiece.  Did  you  ever  see  such  a  dress  as  that  elephant 
Haynes  expects  me  to  wear  for  the  third  act?" 

"Really  Miss  Mardon's  impossible!"  Charmian  was  saying 
a  moment  later  to  Alston  Lake. 

"Why,  Mrs.  Charmian?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know!    She  always  looks  on  the  dark  side." 

"With  eyes  like  hers  what  else  can  she  do?  Isn't  it  going 
stunningly?" 

"Alston,  I  must  tell  you — you're  an  absolute  darling!" 

She  nearly  kissed  him.    A  bell  sounded. 

"Third  act!"  exclaimed  Alston,  in  his  resounding  baritone. 

Charmian  escaped,  feeling  much  more  hopeful,  indeed 
almost  elated.  Alston  was  right.  With  eyes  like  hers  how 
could  Enid  Mardon  anticipate  good  things? 

Nevertheless  Charmian  remembered  that  she  had  called 
the  libretto  a  masterpiece. 

Oh!  the  agony  of  these  swiftly  changing  moods!  She  felt 
as  if  she  were  being  tossed  from  one  to  another  by  some  cruel 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        425 

giant.  She  tried  to  look  forward.  She  said  to  herself,  "  Very 
soon  we  shall  know!  All  this  will  be  at  an  end." 

But  when  the  third  act  was  finished  she  felt  as  if  never 
could  there  be  an  end  to  her  acute  nervous  anxiety.  For  the 
third  act  did  not  go  well.  The  locusts  were  all  wrong.  The 
lighting  did  not  do.  Most  of  the  "effects"  missed  fire. 
There  were  stoppages,  there  were  arguments,  there  was  a  row 
between  Miss  Mardon  and  Signor  Meroni.  Passages  were 
re-tried,  chaos  seemed  to  descend  upon  the  stage,  engulfing 
the  opera  and  all  who  had  anything  to  do  with  it.  Charmian 
grew  cold  with  despair. 

"Thank  God  Adelaide  did  go  away!"  she  said  to  herself 
at  half-past  one  in  the  morning. 

She  turned  her  head  and  saw  Mrs.  Shiffney  and  Jonson 
Ramer  sitting  in  the  stalls  not  far  from  her.  Mrs.  Shiffney 
made  a  friendly  gesture,  lifting  up  her  right  hand.  Charmian 
returned  it,  and  set  her  teeth. 

"What  does  it  matter?    I  don't  care!" 

The  act  ended  as  it  had  begun  in  chaos.  In  the  finale 
something  went  all  wrong  in  the  orchestra,  and  the  whole 
thing  had  to  be  stopped.  Miss  Mardon  was  furious.  There 
was  an  altercation. 

"This,"  said  Charmian  to  herself,  "is  my  idea  of  Hell." 

She  felt  that  she  was  being  punished  for  every  sin,  however 
tiny,  that  she  had  ever  committed.  She  longed  to  creep 
away  and  hide.  She  thought  of  all  she  had  done  to  bring 
about  the  opera,  of  the  flight  from  England,  of  the  life  at 
Djenan-el-Maqui,  of  the  grand  hopes  that  had  lived  in  the 
little  white  house  above  the  sea. 

"Start  it  again,  I  tell  you!"  roared  Crayford.  "We  can't 
stand  here  all  night  to  hear  you  talking!" 

"Yes,"  a  voice  within  Charmian  said,  "this  is  Hell!" 

She  bent  her  head.    She  felt  like  one  sinking  down. 

When  the  act  was  over  she  went  out  at  once.  She  was 
afraid  of  Mrs.  Shiffney. 

The  smiling  colored  man  took  her  up  in  the  elevator  to 
a  room  where  she  found  Claude  in  his  shirt  sleeves,  with  a 
cup  of  black  coffee  beside  him,  working  at  the  score.  He 
looked  up. 


426        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

"Charmian!  I've  just  finished  all  I  can  do  to-night. 
What's  the  time?" 

"Nearly  two." 

"Did  the  third  act  go  well?" 

She  looked  at  his  white  face  and  burning  eyes. 

"Yes,"  she  said. 

"  Sit  down.     You  look  tired." 

He  went  on  working. 

Just  as  two  o'clock  struck  he  finished,  and  got  up  from  the 
table  over  which  he  had  been  leaning  for  hours. 

"Come  along!    Let's  go  down.    Oh!" 

He  stopped,  and  drank  the  black  coffee. 

"By  the  way,"  he  said,  "won't  you  have  some?" 

"Yes,"  she  said  eagerly. 

He  rang  and  ordered  some  for  her.  While  they  were 
waiting  for  it  she  said: 

"What  an  experience  this  is!" 

"Yes." 

"How  quietly  you  take  it!" 

"We're  in  for  it.    It  would  be  no  use  to  lose  one's  head." 

"  No,  of  course!  But — oh,  what  a  fight  it  is.  I  can  scarcely 
believe  that  in  a  few  days  it  must  be  over,  that  we  shall 
know!" 

"Here's  the  coffee.    Drink  it  up." 

She  drank  it.  They  went  down  in  the  lift.  As  they 
parted — for  Claude  had  to  go  to  Meroni — Charmian  said: 

"Adelaide  Shiffney's  still  here." 

"If  she  stays  to  the  end  we  must  find  out  what  she  thinks." 

"Or— shall  we  leave  it?    After  all— " 

"No,  no!     I  wish  to  hear  her  opinion." 

There  was  a  hard  dry  sound  in  his  voice. 

"Very  well." 

Claude  disappeared. 

The  black  coffee  which  Charmian  had  drunk  excited  her. 
But  it  helped  her.  As  she  went  back  into  the  theater  for  the 
fourth  and  last  act  she  felt  suddenly  stronger,  more  hopeful. 
She  was  able  to  say  to  herself,  "This  is  only  a  rehearsal. 
Rehearsals  always  go  badly.  If  they  don't  actors  and  singers 
think  it  a  bad  sign.  Of  course  the  opera  cannot  sound  really 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        427 

well  when  they  keep  stopping."  Another  thing  helped  her 
now.  She  was  joined  by  Alston  Lake  who  was  not  on  in 
the  last  act.  He  took  her  to  a  box  and  they  ensconced  them- 
selves in  it  together.  Then  he  produced  from  the  capacious 
pockets  of  his  overcoat  a  box  of  delicious  sandwiches  and  a 
small  bottle  of  white  wine.  The  curtain  was  still  down. 
They  had  time  for  a  gay  little  supper. 

How  Charmian  enjoyed  it  and  Alston's  optimism  I  The 
world  changed.  She  saw  everything  in  another  light.  She 
ate,  drank,  talked,  laughed.  Mrs.  Shiffney  and  Ramer  had 
vanished  from  the  stalls,  but  Alston  said  they  were  still  in 
the  theater.  They  were  having  supper,  too,  in  one  of  the 
lobbies.  Crayford  had  just  gone  to  see  them. 

"And  is  he  satisfied?" 

"Oh,  yes.    He  says  it's  coming  out  all  right." 

"But  it  can't  be  ready  by  the  date  he's  fixed  for  the  first 
night!" 

"Yes,  it  can.    It's  got  to  be." 

"Well,  I  don't  see  how  it  can  be." 

"It  will  be.    Crayford  has  said  so.    And  that  settles  it." 

"What  an  extraordinary  man  he  is!" 

"He's  a  great  man!" 

"Alston!" 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Charmian?" 

"He  wouldn't  make  a  great  mistake,  would  he?" 

"A  mistake!" 

"I  mean  a  huge  mistake." 

"Not  he!    There  goes  the  curtain  at  last." 

"And  there's  Adelaide  Shiffney  coming  in  again.  She  is 
going  to  stay  to  the  end.  If  only  this  act  goes  well!" 

She  shut  her  eyes  for  a  minute  and  found  herself  praying. 
The  coffee,  the  little  supper  had  revived  her.  She  felt  re- 
newed. All  fatigue  had  left  her.  She  was  alert,  intent,  ex- 
cited, far  more  self-possessed  than  she  had  been  at  any  other 
period  of  the  night.  And  she  felt  strongly  responsive.  The 
power  of  Gillier's  libretto  culminated  in  the  last  act,  which  was 
short,  fierce,  concentrated,  and  highly  dramatic.  In  it  Enid 
Mardon  had  a  big  acting  chance.  She  and  Gillier  had  become 
great  allies,  on  account  of  her  admiration  of  his  libretto. 


428        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

Gillier,  who  had  been  with  her  many  times  during  the  nightr 
now  slipped  into  the  front  row  of  the  stalls  to  watch  his 
divinity. 

"There's  Gillier!"  whispered  Charmian.  "He's  mad  about 
Miss  Mardon." 

"She's  a  great  artist." 

"I  know.    But,  oh,  how  I  hate  her!" 

"Why?" 

But  Charmian  would  not  tell  him.  And  now  they  gave 
themselves  to  the  last  act. 

It  went  splendidly,  without  a  hitch.  After  the  misery  of 
the  third  act  this  successful  conclusion  was  the  more  surpris- 
ing. It  swept  away  all  Charmian's  doubts.  She  frankly 
exulted.  It  even  seemed  to  her  that  never  at  any  time  had 
she  felt  any  doubts  about  the  fate  of  the  opera.  From  the 
first  its  triumph  had  been  a  foregone  conclusion.  From  the 
abysses  she  floated  up  to  the  peaks  and  far  above  them. 

"Oh,  Alston,  it's  too  wonderful!"  she  exclaimed.  "If  only 
there  were  someone  to  applaud!" 

"There'll  be  a  crowd  in  a  few  days." 

"How  glorious!  How  I  long  to  see  them,  the  dear  thou- 
sands shouting  for  Claude.  I  must  go  to  Adelaide  Shiffney. 
I  must  catch  her  before  she  goes.  There  can't  be  two  opinions. 
An  act  like  that  is  irresistible.  Oh!" 

She  almost  rushed  out  of  the  box. 

In  the  stalls  she  came  upon  Mrs.  Shiffney  and  Jonson 
Ramer  who  were  standing  up  ready  to  go.  A  noise  of  de- 
parture came  up  from  the  hidden  orchestra.  Voices  were 
shouting  behind  the  scenes.  In  a  moment  the  atmosphere 
of  the  vast  theater  seemed  to  have  entirely  changed.  Night 
and  the  deadness  of  slumber  seemed  falling  softly,  yet  heavily, 
about  it.  The  musicians  were  putting  their  instruments  into 
cases  and  bags.  A  black  cat  stole  furtively  unseen  along  a 
row  of  stalls,  heading  away  from  Charmian. 

"So  you  actually  stayed  to  the  end!"  Charmian  said. 

Her  eyes  were  fastened  on  Mrs.  Shiffney. 

"Oh,  yes.  We  couldn't  tear  ourselves  away,  could  we, 
Mr.  Ramer?" 

"No,  indeed!" 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        429 

"The  last  act  is  the  best  of  all,"  Mrs.  Shiffney  said. 

"Yes,  isn't  it?"  said  Charmian. 

There  was  a  slight  pause.    Then  Ramer  said: 

"I  must  really  congratulate  you,  Mrs.  Heath.  I  don't 
know  your  husband  unfortunately,  but — " 

"Here  he  is!"  said  Charmian. 

At  this  moment  Claude  came  toward  them,  holding 
himself,  she  thought,  unusually  upright,  almost  like  a  man 
who  has  been  put  through  too  much  drill.  With  a  deter- 
mined manner,  and  smiling,  he  came  up  to  them. 

"I  feel  almost  ashamed  to  have  kept  you  here  to  this 
hour,"  he  said  to  Mrs.  Shiffney.  "But  really  for  a  rehearsal 
it  didn't  go  so  badly,  did  it?" 

"Wonderfully  well  we  thought.  Mr.  Ramer  wants  to 
congratulate  you." 

She  introduced  the  two  men  to  one  another. 

"Yes,  indeed!"  said  Ramer.  "It's  a  most  interesting 
work — most  interesting."  He  laid  a  heavy  emphasis  on  the 
repeated  words,  and  glanced  sideways  at  Mrs.  Shiffney,  whose 
lips  were  fixed  in  a  smile.  "And  how  admirably  put  on!" 

He  ran  on  for  several  minutes  with  great  self-possession. 

"Miss  Mar  don  is  quite  wonderful!"  said  Mrs.  Shiffney, 
when  he  stopped. 

And  she  talked  rapidly  for  some  minutes,  touching  on 
various  points  in  the  opera  with  a  great  deal  of  deftness. 

"As  to  Alston  Lake,  he  quite  astonished  us!"  she  said 
presently.  "He  is  going  to  be  a  huge  success." 

She  discussed  the  singers,  showing  her  usual  half-slipshod 
discrimination,  dropping  here  and  there  criticisms  full  of 
acuteness. 

"Altogether,"  she  concluded,  "it  has  been  a  most  interest- 
ing and  unusual  evening.  Ah,  there  is  Monsieur  Gillier!" 

Gillier  came  up  and  received  congratulations.  His  expres- 
sion was  very  strange.  It  seemed  to  combine  something 
that  was  morose  with  a  sort  of  exultation.  Once  he  shot  a 
half  savage  glance  at  Claude.  He  raved  about  Enid  Mardon. 

"We  are  going  round  to  see  her!"  Mrs.  Shiffney  said. 
"Come,  Mr.  Ramer!" 

Quickly  she  wished  Charmian  and  Claude  good-night. 


430       THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

"All  my  congratulations!"  she  said.  "And  a  thousand 
wishes  for  a  triumph  on  the  first  night.  By  the  way,  will  it 
really  be  on  the  twenty-eighth,  do  you  think?" 

"I  believe  so,"  said  Claude. 

" Can  it  be  ready?" 

"We  mean  to  try." 

"Ah,  you  are  workers!  And  Mr.  Crayford's  a  wonder. 
Good-night,  dear  Charmian!  What  a  night  for  you!" 

She  buttoned  her  sable  coat  at  the  neck  and  went  away 
with  Ramer  and  Armand  Gillier. 

As  she  turned  to  the  right  in  the  corridor  she  murmured 
to  Gillier: 

"Why  didn't  you  give  it  to  Jacques?  Oh,  the  pity  of 
it!" 

Claude  and  Charmian  said  scarcely  anything  as  they  drove 
to  their  hotel.  Charmian  lay  back  in  the  taxi-cab  with  shut 
eyes,  her  temples  throbbing.  But  when  they  were  in  their 
sitting-room  she  came  close  to  her  husband,  and  said: 

"Claude,  I  want  to  ask  you  something." 

"What  is  it?" 

"Have  you  had  a  quarrel  with  Adelaide  Shiffney?" 

Claude  hesitated. 

"A  quarrel?" 

"Yes.  Have  you  given  her  any  reason — just  lately — to 
dislike  you  personally,  to  hate  you  perhaps?" 

"What  should  make  you  think  so?" 

"Please  answer  me!"     Her  voice  had  grown  sharp. 

"Perhaps  I  have.  But  please  don't  ask  me  anything 
more,  Charmian.  If  you  do,  I  cannot  answer  you." 

"Now  I  understand!"  she  exclaimed,  almost  passionately. 

"What?" 

"Why  she  turned  down  her  thumb  at  the  opera." 

"But—" 

"Claude,  she  did,  she  did!  You  know  she  did!  There 
was  not  one  real  word  for  you  from  either  her  or  Mr.  Ramer, 
not  one!  We've  had  her  verdict.  But  what  is  it  worth? 
Nothing!  Less  than  nothing!  You've  told  me  why.  All 
her  cleverness,  all  her  discrimination  has  failed  her,  just 
because — oh,  we  women  are  contemptible  sometimes!  It's 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        431 

no  use  our  pretending  we  aren't.  Claude,  I'm  glad — I'm 
thankful  you've  made  her  hate  you.  And  I  know  how!" 

"Hush!    Don't  let  us  talk  about  it." 

"Poor  Adelaide!  How  mad  she  will  be  on  the  twenty- 
eighth  when  she  hears  how  the  public  take  it!" 

Claude  only  said: 

"If  we  are  ready." 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

JACOB  CRAYFORD  was  not  the  man  to  be  beaten  when 
he  had  set  his  heart  on,  put  his  hand  to,  any  enterprise. 
On  the  day  he  had  fixed  upon  for  the  production  of 
Claude's  opera  the  opera  was  ready  to  be  produced.  At  the 
cost  of  heroic  exertions  the  rough  places  had  been  made  plain, 
every  stage  "  effect "  had  been  put  right,  all  the  "  cuts  "  declared 
by  Crayford  to  be  essential  had  been  made  by  Claude,  the 
orchestra  had  mastered  its  work,  the  singers  were  "at  home" 
in  their  parts.  How  it  had  all  been  accomplished  in  the  short 
time  Charmian  did  not  understand.  It  seemed  to  her  almost 
as  if  she  had  assisted  at  the  accomplishment  of  the  incredible, 
as  if  she  had  seen  a  miracle  happen.  She  was  obliged  to  be- 
lieve in  it  after  the  final  rehearsal,  which  was,  so  Crayford,  Mr. 
Mulworth,  Meroni,  and  it  was  even  rumored  Jimber  declared, 
the  most  perfect  rehearsal  they  had  ever  been  present  at. 

"Exactly  three  hours  and  a  half!"  Crayford  had  remarked 
when  the  curtain  came  down  on  the  fourth  act.  "So  we 
come  ahead  of  the  Metropolitan.  I've  just  heard  they've  had 
a  set  back  with  Sennier's  opera;  can't  produce  for  nearly 
a  week  after  the  date  they'd  settled.  We  needn't  have  been 
in  such  a  devil  of  a  hurry  after  all.  But  we've  got  the  laugh 
on  them  now.  Sennier's  first  opera  was  a  white  man.  No 
doubt  about  that.  But  the  hoodoo  seems  out  against  this  one. 
I  tell  you" — he  had  swung  round  to  Claude,  who  had  just 
come  upon  the  stage — "I'd  rather  have  this  opera  of  yours 
than  Sennier's,  although  he's  known  all  over  creation  and 
you're  nothing  but  a  boom-boy  up  to  now.  I  used  to  believe 
in  names,  but  upon  my  word  seems  to  me  the  public's  changing. 
Give  'em  the  goods  and  they  don't  care  where  they  come  from." 

His  eyes  twinkled  as  he  added,  clapping  Claude  on  the 
shoulder : 

"All  very  well  for  you  now,  my  boy!  But  you'll  wish  it 
was  the  other  way,  p'raps,  when  you  come  round  to  the  stage 
door  with  your  next  opera  on  offer!" 

432 


433 

He  was  in  grand  spirits.  He  had  "licked"  the  Metro- 
politan to  a  " frazzle"  over  the  date  of  production,  and  he 
was  going  to  "lick  them  to  a  frazzle"  with  the  production. 
Every  reserved  seat  in  the  house  was  sold  for  Claude's  first 
night.  Crayford  stepped  on  air. 

In  the  afternoon  of  the  day  of  production,  when  Charmian 
and  Claude,  shut  up  in  their  apartment  at  the  St.  Regis,  and 
denied  to  all  visitors,  were  trying  to  rest,  and  were  pretending 
to  be  quite  calm,  a  note  was  brought  in  from  Mrs.  Shiffney. 
It  was  addressed  to  Charmian,  and  contained  a  folded  slip  of 
green  paper,  which  fell  to  the  ground  as  she  opened  the  note. 
Claude  picked  it  up. 

"What  is  it?"  said  Charmian. 

"A  box  ticket  for  the  Metropolitan.  It  must  be  for 
Sennier's  first  night,  I  suppose." 

"It  is!"  said  Charmian,  who  had  looked  at  the  note. 

In  a  moment  she  gave  it  to  Claude  without  comment. 

RITZ-CARLTON  HOTEL. 
Feb.  zSth 

"DEAR  CHARMIAN, — Only  a  word  to  wish  you  and  your 
genius  a  gigantic  success  to-night.  We've  all  been  praying  for 
it.  Even  Susan  has  condescended  from  the  universal  to  the 
particular  on  this  occasion,  because  she's  so  devoted  to  both 
of  you.  We  are  all  coming,  of  course,  Box  Number  Fifteen, 
and  are  going  to  wear  our  best  Sunday  tiaras  in  honor  of  the 
occasion.  I  hear  you  are  to  have  a  marvellous  audience,  all 
the  millionaires,  as  well  as  your  humble  friends,  the  Adelaides 
and  the  Susans  and  the  Henriette  Senniers.  Mr.  Crayford 
is  a  magnificent  drum-beater,  but  after  to-night  your  genius 
won't  need  him,  I  hope  and  believe.  I  enclose  a  box  for 
Jacques  Sennier's  first  night,  which,  as  you'll  see  by  the  date, 
has  had  to  be  postponed  for  four  days — something  wrong  with 
the  scenery.  No  hitch  in  your  case!  I  feel  you  are  on  the 
edge  of  a  triumph. 

"Hopes  and  prayers  for  the  genius. — Yours  ever  sincerely, 

"ADELAIDE  SHIFFNEY." 

"Susan  sends  her  love — not  the  universal  brand." 

28 


434        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

Claude  read  the  note,  and  kept  it  for  a  moment  in  his  hand. 
He  was  looking  at  it,  but  he  knew  Charmian's  eyes  were 
on  him,  he  knew  she  was  silently  asking  him  to  tell  her  all 
that  had  happened  between  Mrs.  Shiffney  and  him.  And  he 
realized  that  her  curiosity  was  the  offspring  of  a  jealousy 
which  she  probably  wished  to  conceal,  but  which  she  suffered 
under  even  on  such  a  day  of  anxiety  and  anticipation  as 
this. 

"Very  kind  of  her!"  he  said  at  last,  giving  back  the  note 
with  the  box  ticket  carefully  folded  between  the  leaves. 
"Of  course  we  will  go  to  hear  Sennier's  opera.  He  is  coming 
to  ours." 

"To  yours!" 

"Ours!"  Claude  repeated,  with  emphasis. 

Charmian  looked  down.  Then  she  went  to  the  writing- 
table  and  put  Mrs.  Shiffney's  note  into  one  of  its  little  drawers. 
She  pushed  the  drawer  softly.  It  clicked  as  it  shut.  She 
sighed.  Something  in  the  note  they  had  just  read  made  her 
feel  apprehensive.  It  was  almost  as  if  it  had  given  out  a 
subtle  exhalation  which  had  affected  her  physically. 

"Claudie!"  she  said,  turning  round.  "I  would  give 
almost  anything  to  be  like  Susan  to-day." 

"Would  you?    But  why?" 

"She  would  be  able  to  take  it  all  calmly.  She  would  be 
able  to  say  to  herself — 'all  this  is  passing,  a  moment  in 
eternity,  whichever  way  things  go  my  soul  will  remain  un- 
affected'— something  like  that.  And  it  would  really  be  so 
with  Susan." 

"  She  certainly  carries  with  her  a  great  calmness." 

Charmian  gazed  at  him. 

"You  are  wonderful  to-day,  too." 

Claude  had  kept  up  to  this  moment  his  dominating,  almost 
bold  air  of  a  conqueror  of  circumstances,  the  armor  which  he 
had  put  on  as  a  dress  suitable  to  New  York. 

"But  in  quite  a  different  way,"  she  added.  "Susan 
never  defies." 

Claude  was  startled  by  her  shrewdness  but  avoided  com- 
ment on  it. 

"Madre  must  be  thinking  of  us  to-day,"  he  said. 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        435 

"Yes.  I  thought — I  almost  expected  she  would  send  us 
a  cablegram." 

"It  may  come  yet.    There's  plenty  of  time." 

Charmian  looked  at  the  clock. 

"Only  four  hours  before  the  curtain  goes  up." 

"Or  we  may  find  one  for  us  at  the  theater." 

"  Somehow  I  don't  think  Madre  would  send  it  there." 

She  went  to  sit  down  on  the  sofa,  putting  cushions  behind 
her  with  nervous  hands,  leaned  back,  leaned  forward,  moved 
the  cushions,  again  leaned  back. 

"I  almost  wish  we'd  asked  Alston  to  come  in  to-day," 
she  said. 

"But  he's  resting." 

"I  know.  But  he  would  have  come.  He  could  have 
rested  here  with  us." 

"Better  for  him  to  keep  his  voice  perfectly  quiet.  To- 
night is  his  debut.  He  has  got  to  pay  back  over  three  years 
to  Crayford  with  his  performance  to-night.  And  we  shall 
have  him  with  us  at  supper." 

Charmian  moved  again,  pushed  the  cushions  away  'from 
her. 

"Yes,  I've  ordered  it,  a  wonderful  supper,  all  the  things 
you  and  Alston  like  best." 

"We'll  enjoy  it." 

"Won't  we?    You  sent  Miss  Mardon  the  flowers?" 

"Yes." 

The  telephone  sounded. 

"It  is  Miss  Mardon,"  Claude  said,  as  he  listened.  "She's 
thanking  me  for  the  flowers." 

"Give  her  my  love  and  best  wishes  for  to-night." 

Claude  obeyed,  and  added  his  own  in  a  firm  and  cheerful 
voice. 

"She's  resting,  of  course,"  said  Charmian. 

"Yes." 

"Everyone  resting.    It  seems  almost  ghastly." 

"Why?"  he  said,  laughing. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know— death-like.     I'm  stupid  to-day." 

She  longed  to  say,  "I  am  full  of  forebodings!"  But  she 
was  held  back  by  the  thought,  "  Shall  I  fail  in  resolution  at 


436        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

the  last  moment,  show  the  white  feather  when  he  is  so  cool, 
so  master  of  himself?  I  who  have  been  such  a  courageous 
wife,  who  have  urged  him  on,  who  have  made  this  day 
possible!" 

"It's  only  the  physical  reaction,"  she  added  hastily. 
"After  all  we've  gone  through." 

"Oh,  we  mustn't  give  way  to  reaction  yet.  We've  got  the 
big  thing  in  front  of  us.  All  the  rest  is  nothing  in  comparison 
with  to-night." 

"I  know!  I  hope  Madre  will  cable.  If  she  doesn't,  it 
will  seem  like  a  bad  omen.  I  shall  feel  as  if  she  didn't  care 
what  happens." 

He  said  nothing. 

"Won't  you?"  she  asked. 

"I  think  she  will  cable.  But  even  if  she  doesn't,  I  know 
she  always  cares  very  much  what  happens  to  you  and  me. 
Nothing  would  ever  make  me  doubt  that." 

"No,  of  course  not.  But  I  do  want  her  to  show  it,  to 
prove  it  to  us  to-day.  It  is  such  a  day  in  our  lives!  Never, 
so  long  as  we  live,  can  we  have  such  another  day.  It  is  the 
day  I  dreamed  of,  the  day  I  foresaw,  that  night  at  Covent 
Garden." 

She  felt  a  longing,  which  she  checked,  to  add,  "It  is  the 
day  I  decreed  when  I  looked  at  Henriette  Sennier!"  But 
though  she  checked  the  longing,  its  birth  had  brought  to  her 
hope.  She,  a  girl,  had  decreed  this  day  and  her  decree  had 
been  obeyed.  Her  will  had  been  exerted,  and  her  will  had 
triumphed.  Nothing  could  break  down  that  fact.  Nothing 
could  ever  take  from  her  the  glory  of  that  achievement. 
And  it  seemed  to  point  to  the  ultimate  glory  for  which  she  had 
been  living  so  long,  for  which  she  had  endured  so  patiently. 
Suddenly  her  restlessness  increased,  but  it  was  no  longer 
merely  the  restlessness  of  unquiet  nerves.  Anticipation 
whipped  her  to  movement,  and  she  sprang  up  abruptly  from 
the  sofa. 

"Claude,  I  can't  stay  in  here!  I  can't  rest.  Don't  ask 
me  to.  Anything  else,  but  not  that!" 

She  went  to  him,   put  her  hands  on  his  shoulders. 

"Be  a  dear!     Take  me  out!" 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        437 

"Where  to?" 

"Anywhere!  Fifth  Avenue,  Central  Park!  Let  us  walk! 
I  know!  Let  us  walk  across  the  park  and  look  at  the  theater, 
our  theater.  A  walk  will  do  me  more  good  than  you  can 
dream  of,  genius  though  you  are.  And  the  time  will  pass 
quickly.  I  want  it  to  fly.  I  want  it  to  be  night.  I  want  to 
see  the  crowd.  I  want  to  hear  it.  How  can  we  sit  here  in 
this  hot  red  room  waiting?  Take  me  out!" 

Claude  was  glad  to  obey  her.  They  wrapped  themselves 
up,  for  it  was  a  bitter  day,  and  went  down  to  the  hall.  As 
they  passed  the  bureau  the  well-dressed,  smooth-faced  men  be- 
hind the  broad  barrier  looked  at  them  with  a  certain  interest  and 
smiled.  Charmian  glanced  round  gaily  and  nodded  to  them. 

"I  am  sure  they  are  all  wishing  us  well!"  she  said  to  Claude. 
"I  quite  love  Americans." 

"A  taxi,  sir?"  asked  a  big  man  in  uniform  outside. 

"No,  thank  you." 

They  went  to  the  left  and  turned  into  Fifth  Avenue. 

How  it  roared  that  day!  An  endless  river  of  motor-cars 
poured  down  it.  Pedestrians  thronged  the  pavements, 
hurrying  by  vivaciously,  brimming  with  life,  with  vigor, 
with  purpose.  The  nations,  it  seemed,  were  there.  For  the 
types  were  many,  and  called  up  before  the  imagination  a 
great  vision  of  the  world,  not  merely  a  conception  of  New 
York  or  of  America.  Charmian  looked  at  the  faces  flitting 
past  and  thought: 

"What  a  world  it  is  to  conquer!" 

"Isn't  it  splendid  out  here!"  she  said.  "What  an  almost 
maddening  whirl  of  life.  Faces,  faces,  faces,  and  brains  and 
souls  behind  them.  I  love  to  see  all  these  faces  to-day.  I 
feel  the  brains  and  the  souls  are  wanting  something  that  you 
are  going  to  give  them." 

"Let  us  hope  one  or  two  out  of  the  multitude  may  be!" 

"One  or  two!  Claudie,  you  miserable  niggard!  You 
always  think  yourself  unwanted.  But  you  will  see  to-night. 
Every  reserved  seat  and  every  box  is  taken,  every  single  one! 
Think  of  that— and  all  because  of  what  you  have  done.  Are 
we  going  to  Central  Park?" 

"  Unless  you  wish  to  promenade  up  and  down  Fifth  Avenue." 


438        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

"No,  I  did  say  the  Park,  and  we  will  go  there.  But  let 
us  walk  near  the  edge,  not  too  far  away  from  this  marvellous 
city.  Never  was  there  a  city  like  New  York  for  life.  I'm 
sure  of  that.  It's  as  if  every  living  creature  had  quicksilver 
in  his  veins — or  her  veins.  For  I  never  saw  such  vital  women 
as  one  sees  here  anywhere  else!  Oh,  Claude!  When  you 
conquer  these  wonderful  women!" 

Her  vivacity  and  excitement  were  almost  unnatural. 

"New  York  intoxicates  me  to-day!"  she  exclaimed. 

"How  are  you  going  to  do  without  it?" 

"When  we  go?" 

"Yes,  when  we  go  home?" 

"Home?     But  where  is  our  home?" 

"In  Kensington  Square,  I  suppose." 

"I  don't  feel  as  if  we  should  ever  be  able  to  settle  down 
there  again.  That  little  house  saw  our  little  beginnings, 
when  we  didn't  know  what  we  really  meant  to  do." 

"Djenan-el-Maqui  then?" 

"Ah!"  she  said,  with  a  changed  voice.  "Djenan-el- 
Maqui!  What  I  have  felt  there!  More  than  I  ever  can  tell 
you,  Claudie." 

She  began  to  desire  the  comparative  quiet  of  the  Park, 
and  was  glad  that  just  then  they  passed  the  Plaza  Hotel  and 
went  toward  it. 

"I  wonder  how  Enid  Mardon  is  feeling,"  she  said,  looking 
up  at  the  ranges  of  windows.  "Which  is  the  tenth  floor 
where  she  is?" 

"Don't  ask  me  to  count  to-day.  I  would  rather  play 
with  the  squirrels." 

They  were  among  the  trees  now  and  walked  on  briskly. 
Both  of  them  needed  movement  and  action,  something  to 
"take  them  out  of  themselves."  A  gray  squirrel  ran  down 
from  its  tree  with  a  waving  tail  and  crossed  just  in  front  of 
them  slowly.  Charmian  followed  it  with  her  eyes.  It  had 
an  air  of  cheerful  detachment,  of  self-possession,  almost  of 
importance,  as  if  it  were  fully  conscious  of  its  own  value  in 
the  scheme  of  the  universe,  whatever  others  might  think. 

"How  contented  that  little  beast  looks,"  said  Claude. 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        439 

"But  it  can  never  be  really  happy,  as  you  and  I  could  be, 
as  we  are  going  to  be." 

"No,  perhaps  not.     But  there's  the  other  side." 

He  quoted  Dante: 

"Quanta  la  cosa  b  piti  perjetta  piu  senta  U  bene,  e  cosi  la 
doglienza." 

"I  don't  wish  to  prove  that  I'm  high  up  in  the  scale  by 
suffering,"  she  said.  "Do  you?" 

"Ought  not  the  artist  to  be  ready  for  every  experience?" 
he  answered. 

And  she  thought  she  detected  in  his  voice  a  creeping  of 
irony. 

"We  are  getting  near  to  the  theater,"  she  said  presently, 
when  they  had  walked  for  a  time  in  silence.  "Let  us  keep  in 
the  Park  till  we  are  close  to  it,  and  then  just  stand  and  look 
at  it  for  a  moment  from  the  opposite  side  of  the  way." 

"Yes,"  he  said. 

Evening  was  falling  as  they  stood  before  the  great  building, 
the  home  of  their  fortune  of  the  night.  The  broad  roadway 
lay  between  them  and  it.  Carriages  rolled  perpetually  by, 
motor-cars  glided  out  of  the  dimness  of  one  distance  into  the 
dimness  of  the  other.  Across  the  flood  of  humanity  they 
gazed  at  the  great  blind  building,  which  would  soon  be  bril- 
liantly lit  up  for  them,  because  of  what  they  had  done.  The 
carriages,  the  motor-cars  filed  by.  A  little  later  and  they 
would  stop  in  front  of  the  monster,  to  give  it  the  food  it  desired, 
to  fill  its  capacious  maw.  And  out  of  every  carriage,  out  of 
every  motor-car,  would  step  a  judge,  or  judges,  prepared  to 
join  in  the  great  decision  by  which  was  to  be  decided  a  fate.- 
Both  Claude  and  Charmian  were  thinking  of  this  as  they  stood 
together,  while  the  darkness  gathered  about  them  and  the  cold 
wind  eddied  by.  And  Charmian  longed  passionately  to  have 
the  power  to  hypnotize  all  those  brains  into  thinking  Claude's 
work  wonderful,  all  those  hearts  into  loving  it.  For  a  moment 
the  thought  of  the  human  being's  independence  almost  appalled 
her. 

"It  looks  cold  and  almost  dead  now,"  she  murmured. 
"How  different  it  will  look  in  a  few  hours!" 


440        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

"Yes." 

They  still  stood  there,  almost  like  two  children,  fascinated 
by  the  sight  of  the  theater.  Charmian  was  rapt.  For  a 
moment  she  forgot  the  passers-by,  the~gliding  motor-cars,  the 
noises  of  the  city,  even  herself.  She  was  giving  herself  im- 
aginatively to  fate,  not  as  herself,  but  merely  as  a  human  life. 
She  was  feeling  the  profound  mystery  of  human  life  held  in 
the  arms  of  destiny.  An  abrupt  movement  of  Claude  almost 
startled  her. 

"What  is  it?"  she  said. 

She  looked  up  at  him  quickly. 

"What's  the  matter,  Claude?" 

"Nothing,"  he  answered.  "But  it's  time  we  went  back 
to  the  hotel.  Come  along." 

And  without  another  glance  at  the  theater  he  turned  round 
and  began  to  walk  quickly. 

He  had  seen  on  the  other  side  of  the  way,  going  toward 
the  theater,  the  colored  woman  in  the  huge  pink  hat,  of  whom 
he  had  caught  a  glimpse  on  the  night  when  Alston  Lake  had 
fetched  him  and  Charmian  to  see  the  rehearsal  of  the  "  locust- 
effect."  The  woman  turned  her  head,  seemed  to  gaze  at  him 
across  the  road  with  her  bulging  eyes,  stretched  her  thick  lips 
in  a  smile.  Then  she  took  her  place  in  a  queue  which  was  be- 
ginning to  lengthen  outside  one  of  the  gallery  doors  of  the 
theater. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

THE  great  theater  which  Jacob  Crayford  had  built  to 
"knock  out"  the  Metropolitan  Opera  House  filled  slowly. 
Those  dark  and  receding  galleries,  which  had  drawn  the 
eyes  of  Charmian,  were  already  crowded,  alive  with  white 
moving  faces,  murmurous  with  voices.  In  the  corridors  and 
the  lobbies  many  men  were  standing  and  talking.  Smartly 
dressed  women  began  to  show  themselves  in  the  curving  ranges 
of  boxes.  Musical  critics  and  newspaper  men  gathered  in 
knots  and  discussed  the  musical  season,  the  fight  that  was 
"on"  between  the  two  opera  houses,  the  libretto-scandal, 
which  had  not  yet  entirely  died  down,  Jacob  Crayford's  pros- 
pects of  becoming  a  really  great  power  in  opera. 

Crayford's  indomitable  pluck  and  determined  spending  of 
money,  had  impressed  the  American  imagination.  There 
were  many  who  wished  him  well.  The  Metropolitan  Opera 
House,  with  the  millionaires  behind  it,  could  be  trusted  to 
take  care  of  itself.  Crayford  was  spending  his  own  money, 
won  entirely  by  his  own  enterprise,  cleverness  and  grit.  He 
was  a  man.  Men  instinctively  wished  to  see  him  get  in  front. 
And  to-night  Claude  stood  side  by  side  with  Crayford,  his 
chosen  comrade  in  the  battle.  Critics  and  newspaper  men 
were  disposed  to  lift  him  on  their  shoulders  if  only  he  gave 
them  the  chance.  The  current  of  opinion  favored  him. 
Report  of  his  work  was  good.  Jaded  critics,  newspaper  men 
who  had  seen  and  known  too  much,  longed  for  novelty. 
Crayford's  prophecy  was  coming  true.  America  was  turning 
its  bright  and  sharp  eyes  toward  the  East.  And  out  of  the 
East,  said  rumor,  this  new  opera  came.  Surely  it  would 
bring  with  it  a  breath  of  that  exquisite  air  which  prevails 
where  the  sands  lift  their  golden  crests,  the  creaking  rustle  of 
palm  trees,  the  silence  of  the  naked  spaces  where  God  lives 
without  man,  the  chatter,  the  cries,  the  tinkling  stream  voices 
of  the  oases. 

Even  tired  men  and  men  who  had  seen  too  much  knew 

441 


442        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

anticipation  to-night.  Word  had  gone  around  that  Crayford 
had  brought  the  East  to  America.  People  were  eager  to  take 
their  places  upon  his  magic  carpet. 

The  crowd  in  the  lobbies  increased.  The  corridors  were 
thronged. 

Van  Brinen  passed  by,  walking  slowly,  and  looking  about 
him  with  his  rather  pathetic  eyes.  He  saw  Jacob  Crayford, 
smartly  dressed,  a  white  flower  in  his  buttonhole,  standing  in 
a  group  of  pressmen,  went  up  to  him  and  gently  took  him  by 
the  arm. 

"Hulloh,  Van  Brinen!     Going  to  be  kind  to  us  to-night?" 

"I  hope  so.    Your  man  is  a  man  of  value." 

"Heath?  And  if  he  weren't,  d'you  think  I'd  be  spending 
my  last  dollar  on  him?  But  what  do  you  know  of  his  music 
more  than  the  others?" 

And  Crayford's  eyes,  become  suddenly  sharp  and  piercing, 
fixed  themselves  on  the  critic's  face. 

"I  heard  some  of  it  one  night  in  his  room  at  the  St.  Regis." 

"Bits  of  the  opera?" 

"One  bit.  But  there  was  something  else  that  impressed 
me  enormously — almost  terrible  music." 

"Oh,  that  was  probably  some  of  his  Bible  rubbish.  But 
thank  the  Lord  we've  got  him  away  from  all  that.  Hulloh, 
Perkins!  Come  here  to  see  me  get  in  front?" 

In  box  fifteen,  on  the  ground  tier,  Mrs.  Shiffney  settled 
herself  with  Madame  Sennier,  Jacques  Sennier,  and  Jonson 
Ramer.  Susan  Fleet  was  next  door  with  friends,  a  highly 
cultivated  elderly  man,  famous  as  a  lawyer  and  connoisseur, 
and  his  wife.  Alston  Lake's  family  and  most  of  his  many 
friends  were  in  the  stalls,  where  Armand  Gillier  had  a  seat 
close  to  a  gangway,  so  that  he  could  easily  slip  out  to  pay  his 
homage  to  Enid  Mardon.  His  head  was  soaked  with  eau-de- 
quinine.  On  his  muscular  hands  he  wore  thick  white  kid 
gloves.  And  he  gazed  at  his  name  on  the  programme  with 
almost  greedy  eyes. 

Mrs.  Shiffney  glanced  swiftly  about  the  immense  house, 
looking  from  box  to  box.  She  took  up  her  opera  glasses. 

"I  wonder  where  the  Heaths  are  sitting,"  she  said. 
"Henriette,  can  you  see  them?" 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        443 

Madame  Sennier  looked  round  with  her  hard  yellow  eyes. 

"No.  Perhaps  they  aren't  here  yet.  Or  they  may  be 
above  us.  Or  perhaps  they  are  too  nervous  to  come." 

Her  painted  lips  stretched  themselves  in  a  faint  and  enig- 
matic smile. 

"I'm  quite  sure  Charmian  Heath  will  be  here.  This  is 
to  be  the  great  night  of  her  life.  She  is  not  the  woman  to 
miss  it." 

Mrs.  Shiffney  leaned  round  to  the  next  box. 

"Susan,  can  you  see  the  Heaths?" 

"Yes,"  returned  the  theosophist,  in  her  calm  chest  voice. 
"She  is  just  coming  into  a  box  on  the  same  tier  as  we  are  in  " 

"Where?    Where?" 

"Over  there,  on  my  right,  about  ten  boxes  from  us.  She 
is  in  pale  green." 

"That  pretty  woman!"  said  the  elderly  lawyer.  "Is  she 
the  composer's  wife?" 

He  put  up  his  glasses. 

"Yes,  I  see  now,"  said  Mrs.  Shiffney. 

She  drew  back  into  her  box. 

"There  she  is,  Henriette!  She  seems  to  be  alone.  But 
Heath  is  sitting  behind  her  in  the  shadow.  I  saw  him  for  a 
minute  before  he  sat  down." 

Madame  Sennier  looked  at  Charmian  as  Charmian  had  once 
looked  at  her  across  another  opera  house.  But  her  mind 
contemplated  Charmian  in  this  hour  of  her  destiny  implacably. 
She  said  nothing. 

Jacques  Sennier  began  to  chatter. 

At  a  few  minutes  past  eight  the  lights  went  down  and  the 
opera  began. 

Charmian  and  Claude  were  alone  in  their  box.  On  the 
empty  seat  beside  hers  Charmian  had  laid  some  red  roses  sent 
to  her  by  Alston  Lake  before  she  had  started.  Five  minutes 
after  the  arrival  of  the  flowers  had  come  a  cablegram  from 
England  addressed  to  Claude:  "I  wish  you  both  the  best 
to-night  love.  Madre." 

Just  before  the  opera  began,  as  Charmian  glanced  down  at 
her  roses,  she  saw  a  paper  lying  beside  them  on  the  silk- 
covered  chair. 


444        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

"What's  that?  "she  said. 

"Madre's  cablegram,"  said  Claude.  "I  found  I  had 
brought  it  with  me,  so  I  laid  it  down  there.  If  Madre  had 
come  with  us  she  might  have  occupied  that  seat.  I  thought 
I  would  let  her  wish  lie  there  with  Alston's  roses." 

Their  eyes  met  in  the  shadow  of  the  box.  On  coming  into 
it  Claude  had  turned  out  the  electric  burner. 

"It's  strange  to  think  of  Madre  in  Berkeley  Square  to- 
night," said  Charmian  slowly.  "I  wonder  what  she  is  doing." 

"I  am  quite  sure  she  is  alone,  up  in  her  reading-room 
thinking  of  us,  in  one  of  her  white  dresses." 

"And  wishing  us — "  she  paused. 

The  first  notes  of  the  Prelude  sounded  in  the  hidden 
orchestra. 

Claude  fixed  his  mind  on  the  thought  of  Madre,  in  a  white 
dress,  sitting  alone  in  the  well-known  quiet  room,  thinking  of 
him — in  that  moment  he  was  an  egoist — wishing  him  the  best. 
He  could  almost  see  Madre's  face  rise  up  before  him,  as  it  must 
have  looked  when  she  wrote  that  cablegram,  a  face  kind, 
intense,  with  fire,  sorrow,  and  love  in  the  burning  eyes.  And 
the  thought  of  that  face  helped  him  very  much  just  then,  more 
than  he  would  have  thought  it  possible  that  anything  could 
help  him,  was  a  firm  and  a  tender  friend  to  him  in  a  difficult 
crisis  of  his  life. 

He  sat  back  in  the  shadow  behind  Charmian  in  a  sort  of 
strange  loneliness,  conscious  of  the  enormous  crowd  around 
him.  He  could  not  see  the  members  of  this  crowd.  He  saw 
only  Charmian  in  her  pale  green  gown,  with  a  touch  of  green 
in  her  cloud  of  dark  hair,  and  a  long  way  off  the  stage.  He 
heard  perpetually  his  own  music.  But  to-night  it  did  not 
seem  to  him  to  be  his  own.  He  listened  to  it  with  a  kind  of 
dreadful  and  supreme  detachment,  as  if  it  had  nothing  to  do 
with  him.  But  he  listened  with  great  intensity,  with  all  his 
critical  intelligence  at  work,  and  with — so  at  least  it  seemed 
to  him — his  heart  prepared  to  be  touched,  moved.  It  was 
not  a  hard  heart  which  was  beating  that  night  in  the  breast  of 
Claude,  nor  was  it  the  foolish,  emotional  heart  of  the  partisan, 
lost  to  the  touch  of  reason,  to  the  influence  of  the  deepest 
truth  which  a  man  of  any  genius  dare  not  deny.  No  critic 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION         445 

in  the  vast  theater  that  night  listened  to  Claude's  opera 
more  dispassionately  than  did  Claude  himself.  Sometimes  he 
thought  of  the  colored  woman  in  the  huge  pink  hat.  He 
knew  she  was  somewhere  in  the  theater,  probably  far  up  in  that 
dim  gallery  toward  which  he  had  looked  at  rehearsal,  when  the 
building  had  presented  itself  to  his  imagination  as  a  monster 
waiting  heavily  to  be  fed.  On  this  one  night  at  least  he 
had  fed  it  full.  Was  not  she  stretching  her  great  lips  in  a 
smile? 

Sometimes  Claude  heard  faint  movements,  slight  coughing, 
little  sounds  like  minute  whispers  from  the  crowd.  Now  and 
then  there  was  applause.  Alston  Lake  was  applauded  strongly 
once  after  a  phrase  which  showed  off  his  magnificent  voice, 
and  Charmian  looked  quickly  round  at  Claude  with  cheeks 
flushing,  and  shining  eyes,  which  said  plainly,  "It  is  coming! 
Listen!  The  triumph  is  on  the  way!"  Then  the  widespread 
silence  of  an  attentive  crowd  fell  again,  like  some  vast  veil 
falling,  and  Claude  attended  intensely  to  the  music  as  if  it 
were  the  music  of  another. 

After  the  first  act  there  was  more  applause,  which  sounded 
in  their  box  rather  strong  in  patches  but  scattered.  The 
singers  were  called  three  times,  but  always  in  this  uncon- 
centrated  way. 

"It's  going  splendidly.  They  like  it!"  said  Charmian 
quickly.  "Three  calls.  That's  unusual  after  a  first  act, 
when  the  audience  hasn't  warmed  up.  Isn't  it  odd,  Claudie, 
that  Americans  always  applaud  quite  differently  from  the 
way  the  English  do?  They  always  applaud  like  that." 

She  had  turned  right  round  and  was  almost  facing  him. 

"How  do  you  mean?"  he  said. 

"Didn't  you  notice?  Persistently,  but  in  clumps  as  it 
were.  It  is  by  their  persistence  they  show  how  pleased  they 
are,  rather  than  by  their — their— I  hardly  know  just  how  to 
put  it." 

"By  their  unanimity  perhaps." 

"Oh,  no!    Not  exactly  that!    Here's  Mr.  Crayford." 

Crayford  slipped  in,  but  only  stayed  for  a  moment. 

"Hear  that  applause?"  he  said.  "They're  mad  about 
it.  Alston's  got  them.  I  knew  he  would.  That  boy's  going 


446        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

to  be  famous.  But  wait  till  the  second  act.  They're  in  a  fine 
humor,  only  asking  to  be  pleased.  I  know  the  signs.  The 
libretto's  hit  them  hard.  They're  all  asking  what's  to  happen 
next." 

"You're  satisfied  then?"  said  Charmian. 

"Satisfied!    I'm  so  happy  I  don't  know  what  to  do." 

He  was  gone. 

"He  knows!"  Charmian  said. 

Her  eyes  were  fixed  upon  Claude.  They  looked  almost 
defiant. 

"If  anyone  in  America  knows  what  he  is  talking  about  I 
suppose  it  is  Mr.  Crayford,"  she  added. 

There  was  a  tap  at  the  door.  Claude  opened  it  and  two  of 
their  American  friends  came  in  and  stayed  a  few  minutes, 
saying  how  well  the  opera  was  going,  how  much  they  liked  it, 
how  splendidly  it  was  "put  on" — all  the  proper  and  usual 
things  which  are  said  by  proper  and  usual  persons  on  such 
occasions.  One  of  them  was  an  acquaintance  of  Van  Brinen's. 
Claude  asked  him  if  Van  Brinen  were  in  the  house.  He  said 
yes.  Claude  then  inquired  whether  Van  Brinen  knew  the 
number  of  his  box,  and  was  told  that  he  did  know  it.  The 
conversation  turned  to  other  topics,  but  when  the  two  men 
had  gone  out  Charmian  said: 

"Why  did  you  ask  those  questions  about  Mr.  Van  Brinen, 
Claudie?" 

"Only  because  I  thought  if  he  knew  where  our  box  was  he 
might  pay  us  a  visit.  No  one  has  been  more  friendly  with 
us  than  he  has." 

"I  see.  He's  certain  to  come  after  the  next  act.  Ah! 
the  lights  are  going  down." 

She  had  been  standing  for  a  few  minutes.  Now  she  moved 
to  sit  down.  Before  doing  so  she  drew  her  chair  a  little  way 
back  in  the  box. 

"I  don't  want  to  be  distracted  from  the  stage — my  atten- 
tion, I  mean — by  seeing  too  many  people,"  she  whispered,  in 
explanation  of  her  action.  "You  are  quite  right  to  keep  at 
the  back.  One  can  listen  much  better  if  one  doesn't  see  too 
much  of  the  audience." 

Claude  said  nothing.     The  curtains  were  parting. 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        447 

The  second  act  was  listened  to  by  the  vast  audience  in  a 
silence  that  was  almost  complete. 

Now  and  then  Charmian  whispered  a  word  or  two  to 
Claude.  Once  she  said: 

"Isn't  it  wonderful,  the  silence  of  a  crowd?  Doesn't  it 
show  how  absorbed  they  are?" 

And  again: 

"I  think  it's  such  a  mercy  that  modern  methods  of  com- 
position give  no  opportunity  to  the  audience  to  break  in  with 
applause.  Any  interruption  would  ruin  the  effect  of  the  act 
as  a  whole." 

Claude  just  moved  his  head  in  reply. 

Everything  was  satisfactory.  Jacob  Crayford  had  been 
right.  The  opera  was  ready  for  production  and  was  "going" 
without  a  hitch.  The  elaborate  scenic  effects  were  working 
perfectly.  Miss  Mardon  had  never  been  more  admirable, 
more  completely  mistress  of  her  art.  Nor  had  she  ever  looked 
more  wonderful.  Alston  Lake's  success  was  assured.  His 
voice  filled  the  great  house  without  difficulty.  Even  Charmian 
and  Claude  were  surprised  by  its  volume  and  beauty. 

"Isn't  Alston  splendid?"  whispered  Charmian  once. 

"Yes,"  Claude  replied. 

He  added,  after  a  pause: 

"  Dear  old  Alston  is  safe." 

Charmian  turned  her  face  toward  the  stage.  Now  and 
then  she  moved  rather  restlessly  in  her  chair.  She  had  a  fan 
with  her  and  began  to  use  it.  Then  she  laid  it  down  on  the 
ledge  of  the  box,  then  took  it  up  again,  opened  it,  closed  it, 
and  kept  it  in  her  hand.  She  felt  the  audience  almost  like  a 
weight  laid  upon  her.  Their  silent  attention  began  to  frighten 
her.  She  knew  that  was  ridiculous,  that  if  this  production  did 
not  intimately  concern  her  the  audience's  silence  would  not 
strike  her  as  strange.  People  listening  attentively  are  always 
silent.  She  blamed  herself  for  her  absurdity.  Leaning  a 
little  forward  she  could  just  see  the  outline  of  Madame  Sennier, 
sitting  very  upright  in  the  front  of  her  box,  with  one  arm  and 
hand  on  the  ledge.  Crayford,  who  was  determined  to  be  "in 
the  front  artistically,"  kept  the  theater  very  dark  when  the 
curtain  was  up,  in  order  to  focus  the  attention  of  the  audience 


448        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

on  the  stage.  To  Charmian,  Madame  Sennier  looked  like  a 
shade,  erect,  almost  strangely  motionless,  implacable.  This 
shade  drew  Charmian' s  eyes  as  the  act  went  on.  She  did  not 
move  her  seat  forward  again,  but  she  often  leaned  forward  a 
little.  A  shade  with  a  brain,  a  heart  and  a  soul!  What  were 
they  doing  to-night?  Charmian  remembered  the  attempt  to 
get  the  libretto  away  from  Claude,  Madame  Sennier's  remarks 
about  Claude  after  the  return  from  Constantine.  The  shade 
had  done  her  utmost  to  ensure  that  this  first  night  should 
never  be.  She  had  failed.  And  now  she  was  sitting  over  there 
tasting  her  own  failure.  Charmian  stared  at  her  trying  to 
triumph.  All  the  time  she  was  listening  to  the  music,  was 
saying  to  herself  how  splendid  it  was.  They  had  made  great 
sacrifices  for  it.  And  it  was  splendid.  That  was  their  reward. 

The  music  sounded  strangely  new  to  her  in  this  environ- 
ment. She  had  heard  it  all  at  Djenan-el-Maqui,  on  the  piano, 
sung  by  Alston  and  hummed  by  Claude.  She  had  felt  it, 
sometimes  deeply  on  nights  of  excitement,  when  Claude  had 
played  till  the  stars  were  fading.  She  had  had  her  favorite 
passages,  which  had  always  come  to  her  out  of  the  midst  of 
the  opera  like  friends,  smiling,  or  passionate,  or  perhaps  weep- 
ing, tugging  at  her  heart-strings,  stirring  longings  that  were 
romantic.  At  the  rehearsals  she  had  heard  the  opera  with 
the  singers,  the  orchestra. 

Yet  now  it  seemed  to  her  new  and  strange.  The  great 
audience  had  taken  it,  had  changed  it,  was  showing  it  to  her 
now,  was  saying  to  her:  "This  is  the  opera  of  the  composer, 
Claude  Heath,  a  man  hitherto  unknown."  And  presently  it 
seemed  to  be  saying  to  her  with  insistence: 

"It  is  useless  for  you  to  pretend  to  be  apart  from  me, 
separate  from  me.  For  you  belong  to  me.  You  are  part  of 
me.  Your  thought  is  part  of  my  thought,  your  feeling  is  part 
of  mine.  You  are  nothing  but  a  drop  in  me  and  I  am  the 
ocean." 

Charmian  felt  as  if  she  were  struggling  against  this  attempt 
of  the  audience  to  take  possession  of  her,  were  fighting  to 
preserve  intact  her  independence,  her  individuality.  But  it 
became  almost  the  business  of  a  nightmare,  this  strange  and 
unequal  struggle  in  the  artistic  darkness  devised  by  Crayford. 


THE  WAY   OF  AMBITION        449 

And  the  audience  seemed  to  be  gaining  in  strength,  like  an 
adversary  braced  up  by  conflict. 

Conflict!  The  word  had  appeared  like  a  criminal  in 
Charmian's  mind.  She  strove  vehemently  to  banish  it. 
There  was,  there  could  be  no  conflict  in  such  a  matter  as  was 
now  in  hand.  But,  oh!  this  portentous  silence! 

It  came  to  an  end  at  last.  The  curtain  fell,  and  applause 
broke  forth.  It  resembled  the  applause  after  the  first  act. 
And  once  more  there  were  three  calls  for  the  singers.  Then 
the  clapping  died  away  and  conversation  broke  out,  spreading 
over  the  crowd.  Many  people  got  up  from  their  seats  and 
went  out  or  moved  about  talking  with  acquaintances. 

"I  can  see  Mr.  Van  Brinen,"  said  Charmian. 

"  Can  you?     Where  is  he?  " 

Claude  got  up  slowly,  picked  up  the  roses  and  the  cable- 
gram from  the  chair  beside  Charmian,  put  them  behind  him, 
and  took  the  chair,  bringing  it  forward  quite  to  the  front  of 
the  box.  As  he  did  so  Charmian  made  a  sound  like  a  word 
half-uttered  and  checked. 

"Where  is  he?"  Claude  repeated. 

Many  people  in  the  stalls  were  looking  at  him,  were  pointing 
him  out.  He  seemed  to  ignore  the  attention  fixed  upon  him. 

"There!"  said  Charmian,  in  a  low  voice. 

She  pointed  with  her  fan,  then  leaned  back. 

Claude  looked  and  saw  Van  Brinen  not  far  off.  He  was 
standing  up  in  the  stalls,  facing  the  boxes,  bending  a  little 
and  talking  to  two  smartly  dressed  women.  His  pale  face 
looked  sad.  Presently  he  stood  up  straight  and  seemed  to 
look  across  the  intervening  heads  into  Claude's  eyes. 

"He  must  see  me!"  Claude  thought.    "He  does  see  me!" 

Van  Brinen  stood  thus  for  quite  a  minute.  Then  he  made 
his  way  to  one  of  the  exits  and  disappeared. 

"He  is  coming  round  to  the  box,  I'm  sure,"  said  Charmian 
cheerfully.  "He  evidently  saw  us." 

"Yes." 

But  Van  Brinen  did  not  come.  Nor  did  Jacob  Crayford. 
Several  others  came,  however,  and  there  were  comments, 
congratulations.  The  same  things  were  repeated  by  several 
mouths  with  strangely  similar  intonations.  And  Charmian 

29 


450        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

made  appropriate  answers.  And  all  the  time  she  kept  on 
saying  to  herself:  "This  is  my  hour  of  triumph,  as  Madame 
Sennier's  was  at  Covent  Garden.  Only  this  is  America  and 
not  England.  So  of  course  there  is  a  difference.  New  York 
has  its  way  of  setting  the  seal  on  a  triumph  and  London  has 
its  way." 

Moved  presently  to  speak  out  of  her  mind  she  said  to  a 
Boston  man,  called  Hostatter,  who  had  looked  in  upon  them: 

"It  is  so  interesting,  I  think,  to  notice  the  difference  be- 
tween one  nation  and  another  in  such  a  matter  for  instance 
as  this  receiving  of  a  new  work." 

"Very  interesting,  very  interesting,"  said  Hostatter. 

"You  Americans  show  what  you  feel  by  the  intensity  of 
your  si — by  the  intensity,  the  concentration  with  which  you 
listen." 

"Exactly.  And  what  is  a  London  audience  like?  I  have 
never  been  to  a  London  premiere." 

"Oh,  more — more  boisterous  and  less  intense.  Isn't  it 
so,  Claude?" 

"No  doubt  there's  a  difference,"  said  Claude. 

"Do  you  mean  they  are  boisterous  at  Covent  Garden?" 
said  Hostatter,  evidently  surprised.  "I  always  thought  the 
Covent  Garden  audience  was  such  a  cold  one." 

"Oh,  no,  I  don't  think  so,"  said  Charmian. 

She  remembered  the  first  night  of  Le  Paradis  Terrestre. 
Suddenly  a  chill  ran  all  through  her,  as  if  a  stream  of  ice-cold 
water  had  trickled  upon  her. 

"Really!"  said  Hostatter.  "And  yet  we  Americans  are 
said  to  have  a  bad  reputation  for  noise." 

He  had  been  smiling,  but  looked  suddenly  doubtful. 

"But  as  you  say,"  he  added,  rather  hastily,  "in  a  theater 
we  concentrate,  especially  when  we  are  presented  with  some- 
thing definitely  artistic,  as  we  are  to-night." 

He  shook  hands. 

"Definitely  artistic.    My  most  sincere  congratulations." 

He  went  out,  and  another  man  called  Stephen  Clinch,  an 
ally  of  Crayford's  immediately  came  in.  After  a  few  minutes 
of  conversation  he  said: 

"Everybody    is    admiring    the    libretto.     First-rate    stuff, 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION       451 

to  find  the  auth°r  with  ***•  ^  ^ 

"Yes,  but  he  told  us  he  would  sit  in  the  stalls,"  said 
Chairman. 

"Haven't  you  seen  him?" 
"No,"  said  Claude. 

"Well,  of  course  you'll  appear  after  the  next  act  with  him 
There's  sure  to  be  a  call.  And  I  know  Gillier  will  be  called 
for  as  well  as  you." 

His  rather  cold  gray  eyes  seemed  to  examine  the  two  faces 
before  him  almost  surreptitiously.  Then  he,  too,  went  out 
of  the  box. 

"A  call  after  this  act!"  said  Charmian. 
"I  believe  they  generally  summon  authors  and  composers 
after  the  penultimate  act  over  here." 

"You'll  take  the  call,  of  course,  Claudie?" 
There  was  a  silence.    Then  he  said: 
"Yes,  I  shall  take  it." 

His  voice  was  hard.     Charmian  scarcely  recognized  it. 
"Then  you'll  have  to  go  behind  the  scenes." 
"Yes." 
"  Will  you— " 

"I'll  wait  till  the  curtain  goes  up,  and  then  slip  out." 
Again  there  was  a  silence.     Charmian  broke  it  at  length 
by  saying: 

"I  think  Monsieur  Gillier  might  have  come  to  see  us  to- 
night.    It  would  have  been  natural  if  he  had  visited  our  box." 
"Perhaps  he  will  come  presently." 
A  bell  sounded.    The  third  act  was  about  to  begin. 
Soon  after  the  curtains  had  once  more  parted,  disclosing  a 
marvellous  desert  scene  which  drew  loud  applause  from  the 
audience,  Claude  got  up  softly  from  his  seat. 
"I'll  slip  away  now,"  he  whispered. 

She  felt  for  his  hand  in  the  dimness,  found  it,  squeezed  it. 
She  longed  to  get  up,  to  put  her  lips  to  his,  to  breath  some 
word — she  knew  not  the  word  it  would  be — of  encourage- 
ment, of  affection.  Tears  rushed  into  her  eyes  as  she  felt 
the  touch  of  his  flesh.  As  the  door  shut  behind  him  she 
moved  quite  to  the  back  of  the  box  and  put  her  handkerchief 


452        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

to  her  eyes.  She  had  great  difficulty  just  then  in  not  letting 
the  tears  run  over  her  face.  For  several  minutes  she  scarcely 
heard  the  music  or  knew  what  was  happening  upon  the  stage. 
There  was  a  tumult  of  feeling  within  her  which  she  did  not 
at  all  fully  understand,  perhaps  because  even  now  she  was 
fighting,  fighting  blindly,  desperately,  but  with  courage. 

There  came  a  tap  at  the  door.  Charmian  did  not  hear  it. 
In  a  moment  it  was  softly  repeated.  This  time  she  did  hear 
it.  And  she  hastily  pressed  her  handkerchief  first  against 
one  eye,  then  against  the  other,  got  up  and  opened  the 
door. 

"May  I  come  in  for  a  little  while?"  came  a  calm  whisper 
from  Susan  Fleet,  who  stood  without  in  a  very  plain  black 
gown  with  long  white  gloves  over  her  hands  and  arms. 

"Oh,  Susan — yes!     I  am  all  alone." 

"That  is  why  I  came." 

"How  did  you  know?" 

"My  friend,  Mr.  Melton,  happened  to  be  in  the  corridor 
with  Mr.  Ramer  and  they  saw  your  husband  pass.  Mr.  Ramer 
spoke  to  him  and  he  said  he  was  going  behind  the  scenes. 
So  I  thought  I  would  come  for  a  minute." 

She  stepped  gently  in  and  closed  the  door  quietly. 

"Where  were  you  sitting?"  she  whispered. 

"Here,  at  the  back.  Sit  by  me — oh,  wait!  Let  me  move 
Alston's  flowers." 

She  took  them  up.  As  she  did  so  she  remembered  Madre's 
cablegram,  and  looked  for  it.  But  it  was  no  longer  there. 
She  searched  quickly  on  the  floor. 

"What  is  it?"  said  Susan. 

"Only  a  cablegram  from  Madre  that  was  with  the  flowers. 
It's  gone.  Never  mind.  Claude  must  have  taken  it." 

The  conviction  came  to  her  that  Claude  had  taken  it  with 
him,  as  a  man  takes  a  friend  he  can  trust  when  he  is  going  into 
a  "  tight  place." 

"Sit  here!"  she  whispered  to  Susan. 

Susan  sat  softly  down  beside  Charmian  at  the  back  of  the 
box,  took  one  of  her  hands  and  held  it,  not  closely,  but  gently. 
They  did  not  speak  again  till  the  third  act  was  finished. 

It  was  the  longest  act  of  the  opera,  and  the  most  elaborate. 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        453 

Charmian  had  always  secretly  been  afraid  of  it  since  the  first 
full  rehearsal.  She  could  never  get  out  of  her  mind  the  torture 
she  had  endured  that  evening  when  everything  had  gone 
wrong,  when  she  had  said  to  herself  in  a  sort  of  fierce  and 
active  despair:  "This  is  my  idea  of  Hell."  She  felt  that  even 
if  the  opera  were  a  triumphant  success,  even  if  the  third  act 
were  acclaimed,  she  would  always  dread  it,  almost  as  a  woman 
may  dread  an  enemy.  Once  it  had  tortured  her,  and  she  had 
a  feminine  memory  for  a  thing  that  had  caused  her  agony. 

Now  she  sat  with  her  hand  in  Susan's,  face  to  face  with  the 
dangerous  act,  and  anticipating  the  end,  when  at  last  Claude 
would  confront  the  world  he  had  avoided  so  carefully  till  she 
came  into  his  life. 

The  act,  which  had  been  chaotic  at  rehearsal,  was  going 
with  perfect  smoothness,  almost  too  smoothly  Charmian  began 
to  think.  It  glided  on  its  way  almost  with  a  certain  bland- 
ness.  In  Algeria,  Crayford  had  devoted  most  of  his  attention 
to  this  act,  which  he  had  said  "wanted  a  lot  of  doing  to." 
He  had  "made"  the  whole  of  it  "over."  Charmian  remem- 
bered now  very  well  the  long  discussions  which  had  taken 
place  at  Djenan-el-Maqui  about  this  act.  One  discussion 
stood  out  from  the  rest  at  this  moment.  She  almost  felt  the 
heat  brooding  over  the  far-off  land.  She  almost  saw  the  sky 
shrouded  in  filmy  gray,  the  white  edge  of  the  sea  breaking 
sullenly  against  the  long  line  of  shore,  the  beads  of  sweat  on  the 
forehead  of  Claude,  his  clenched  hands,  the  expression  in  his 
eyes  when  he  said,  after  her  answered  challenge  to  Crayford, 
"Tell  me  what  you  want,  all  you  want,  and  I'll  try  to  do  it." 

This  act  to  which  this  vast  audience,  in  which  she  was  now 
definitely  included  against  her  will,  was  listening  was  the 
product  of  that  scene,  that  discussion,  that  resignation  of 
Claude's. 

Charmian's  hand  twitched  under  Susan's,  but  she  did  not 
draw  it  away,  though  Susan — as  she  knew— would  have  made 
no  effort  to  retain  it.  She  was  thankful  Susan  was  with  her. 
To-night  it  was  impossible  for  her  to  feel  calm.  No  one  could 
have  communicated  calm  to  her.  But  Susan  did  give  her 
something  which  was  a  help  to  her.  Always,  when  with 
Susan,  she  was  able  to  feel,  however  vaguely,  something  of 


454        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

the  universal,  something  of  the  largeness  which  men  feel  when 
they  look  at  the  stars,  or  hear  the  wind  across  vast  spaces,  or 
see  a  great  deed  done.  As  the  act  ran  its  course  her  mind  be- 
came fixed  upon  the  close,  upon  the  caH  for  Claude.  Armand 
Gillier  was  blotted  out  from  her  mind.  The  cry  that  went 
up  would  be  for  Claude.  Would  it  be  a  cry  from  the  heart 
of  this  crowd?  She  remembered,  she  even  heard  distinctly 
in  her  mind,  the  cry  the  Covent  Garden  crowd  had  sent  up 
for  Jacques  Sennier  on  the  first  night  of  Le  Paradis  Terrestre. 
There  had  been  in  it  a  marvellous  sound  which  had  stirred 
her  to  the  depths.  It  was  that  sound  which  had  made  her 
speak  to  Claude,  which  had  determined  her  marriage  with 
Claude. 

If  a  similar  sound  burst  from  the  lips  and  the  hearts  of  the 
crowd  at  the  end  of  this  act,  it  would  determine  Claude's  fate 
as  an  artist,  her  fate  with  his. 

Her  hand  twitched  more  convulsively  under  Susan's  as  she 
thought  of,  waited  for,  the  sound. 

The  locust  scene  was  a  triumph  for  Crayford,  Mr.  Mulworth, 
and  Jimber.  The  scene  which  succeeded  it  was  a  triumph  for 
Alston  Lake.  Whatever  else  this  night  might  bring  forth  one 
thing  was  certain;  Alston  had  "made  good."  He  had  "won 
out"  and  justified  Crayford's  belief  in  him.  Even  his  father, 
reluctantly  sitting  in  the  stalls  after  a  hard  day  in  Wall  Street, 
was  obliged  to  be  proud  of  his  boy. 

"Dear  old  Alston!"  Charmian  found  herself  whispering. 
"He's  a  success.  Alston's  a  success — a  success!" 

She  kept  on  forming  the  last  word,  and  willing  with  all  her 
might. 

"Success!  Success — it  is  coming;  it  is  ours!  In  a  moment 
we  shall  know  it,  we  shall  have  it!  Success!  Success!" 

With  her  soul  and — it  seemed  to  her — with  her  whole 
body,  tense  in  the  pretty  green  gown  so  carefully  chosen  for 
the  great  night,  she  willed,  she  called  upon,  she  demanded 
success.  And  then  she  prayed  for  success.  She  shut  her 
eyes,  prayed  hard,  went  on  praying,  marshalling  all  she  and 
Claude  had  done  before  the  Unseen  Power,  as  reason  for  the 
blessing  she  entreated.  And  while  she  prayed,  her  hand  ceased 
from  twitching  in  Susan  Fleet's. 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        455 

Long  though  the  third  act  was,  at  last  it  drew  near  its  end. 
And  then  Charmian  began  to  be  afraid,  terribly  afraid.  She 
feared  the  decisive  moment.  She  wished  she  were  not  in  the 
theater.  She  thought  of  the  asking  eyes  of  the  pressmen, 
expressing  silently  but  definitely  the  great  demand  of  this  won- 
derful city,  this  wonderful  country:  "Be  a  success!"  If  that 
demand  were  not  complied  with!  She  recalled  the  notoriety 
she  and  Claude  had  had  out  here,  the  innumerable  attentions 
which  had  been  showered  upon  them,  the  interest  which  had 
been  shown  in  them,  the  expectations  aroused  by  Claude. 
She  recalled  the  many  allusions  that  had  been  made  to  herself 
in  the  papers,  the  interviews  with  the  "clever  wife"  who  had 
done  so  much  for  her  husband,  the  columns  about  her  ex- 
pedition to  Paris  to  get  Gillier's  libretto  for  Claude.  Crayford 
had  taken  good  care  that  the  "little  lady"  should  have  her 
full  share  of  the  limelight.  Now,  through  shut  eyelids  she 
saw  it  blaze  like  an  enemy. 

If  the  opera  should  go  down  despite  all  that  had  been  done 
how  could  she  endure  the  situation  that  would  be  hers?  But 
it  would  not  go  down.  She  remembered  that  she  had  once 
heard  that  fear  of  a  thing  attracts  that  thing  to  you.  Was  she 
who  had  been  so  full  of  will,  so  resolute,  so  persistent,  so  marvel- 
lously successful  up  to  a  point,  going  to  be  a  craven  now, 
going  to  show  the  white  feather?  When  that  evening  began 
she  had  been  sitting  in  the  front  of  the  box,  in  full  view  of  the 
audience.  Now  she  was  sitting  in  the  shadow,  clasping  a 
woman's  hand.  Claude  had  gone  to  the  front  of  the  box 
when  she  retreated.  Now,  in  a  very  few  minutes,  he  was 
going  to  face  the  great  multitude.  He  was  showing  will,  grit, 
to-night.  And  she  felt,  she  knew,  that,  whatever  the  occa- 
sion, there  was  in  Claude  something  strong  enough  to  turn 
a  bold  front  to  it  to-night,  perhaps  on  any  night  or  any  day 
of  the  year.  She  must  help  him.  Whether  he  could  see  her 
from  the  stage,  she  did  not  know  She  doubted  it.  But  he 
knew  where  she  was  sitting.  He  might  look  for  her  at  such 
a  moment.  He  might  miss  her  if  she  were  hidden  away  in 
the  shadow  like  a  poltroon. 

She  drew  her  hand  away  from  Susan's,  got  up,  and  took 
her  place  alone  in  the  front  of  thejsox,  in  sight  of  all  the 


456        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

people  in  the  stalls,  in  sight  also  of  Mrs.  Shiffney  and  Madame 
Sennier.  Susan  remained  where  she  was.  She  felt  that 
Charmian  needed  to  be  alone  just  then.  She  liked  her  for 
the  impulse  which  she  had  divined. 

At  last  the  curtain  fell. 

People  applauded. 

"This  is  the  American  way,"  Charmian  was  saying  to 
herself.  "Not  our  way!  But  they  keep  on!  That  shows 
it  is  a  success.  I  mustn't  think  of  Covent  Garden." 

Nevertheless,  with  her  ears,  and  with  her  whole  soul,  she 
was  listening  for  that  wonderful  sound,  heard  at  the  Covent 
Garden,  the  sound  that  stirs,  that  excites,  that  is  soul  in 
utterance. 

"This  is  for  the  singers,"  she  said  to  herself,  "not  for 
Claude.  Bravo,  Alston!  Bravo!  Bravo!" 

The  sound  from  the  audience  suddenly  rose  as  Alston  Lake 
showed  himself,  and,  as  it  did  so,  Charmian  was  sharply,  and 
deliciously,  conscious  of  the  long  power  that  lay  behind,  like 
a  stretching  avenue  leading  down  into  the  soul  of  the  audience. 

"Ah,  they  can  be  as  we  are!"  she  thought.  "They  are 
only  waiting  to  show  it.  I  am  going  to  hear  the  sound." 

With  a  sharp  change  of  mood  she  exulted.  She  savored 
the  triumph  that  was  close  at  hand.  Her  cheeks  flushed,  her 
eyes  shone,  her  heart  beat  violently. 

"The  sound !    The  sound !" 

The  last  of  the  singers  disappeared  behind  the  curtain.  The 
applause  continued  persistently,  but,  so  at  least  it  must  have 
seemed  to  English  ears,  lethargically.  A  few  cries  were  heard. 

"They  are  calling  for  Claude!" 

Charmian  turned  round  to  Susan  Fleet.  Susan  was 
clapping  her  hands  forcibly.  She  stood  up  as  if  to  make  her 
applause  more  audible. 

The  cries  went  up  again.  But  in  the  stalls  the  applause 
seemed  to  be  dying  down,  and  Charmian  had  a  moment  of 
such  acute,  such  exquisite  apprehension,  that  always  after- 
ward she  felt  as  if  she  had  known  the  bitterness  of  death. 
Scarcely  knowing  what  she  did,  and  suddenly  quite  pale,  she 
began  to  clap  with  Susan.  She  felt  like  one  fighting  against 
terrible  odds.  And  the  enemy  sickened  her  because  it  was 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        457 

full  of  a  monstrous  passivity.  It  seemed  to  exhale  inertia. 
To  fight  against  it  was  like  struggling  against  being  smothered 
by  a  gigantic  feather  bed. 

But  she  clapped,  she  clapped.  And  as  she  did  so,  moved 
to  look  round,  she  saw  Mrs.  Shiffney  and  Madame  Sennier 
watching  her  through  two  pairs  of  opera-glasses. 

Her  hands  fell  apart,  dropped  to  her  sides  mechanically. 

Still  cries,  separated,  far,  it  seemed,  from  one  another, 
went  up. 

"Heath!  Heath!"  Charmian  now  heard  distinctly. 

"Gillier!    Author!    Author!" 

The  curtains  moved.  One  was  drawn  back.  A  strangely 
shaped  gap  showed  itself.  But  for  a  long  moment  no  one 
emerged  through  this  gap.  And  again  the  applause  died 
down.  Charmian  sat  quite  still,  her  arms  hanging,  her  eyes 
fixed  on  the  gap,  her  cheeks  still  very  white. 

Just  as  the  applause  seemed  fading  beyond  recall  Claude 
stepped  through  the  gap,  followed  by  Armand  Gillier. 

Once  more  the  cries  were  heard.  The  applause  revived. 
Charmian  gazed  at  Claude.  His  face,  she  thought,  looked  set 
but  quite  calm.  He  stood  at  the  very  edge  of  the  stage,  and 
she  saw  him  look,  not  toward  where  she  was,  but  up  to  the 
gallery  as  if  in  search  of  someone.  Then  he  stepped  back. 
He  had  come  to  the  audience  before  Gillier.  He  now  dis- 
appeared before  Gillier,  who  seemed  about  to  follow  him 
closely,  hesitated,  looked  round  once  more  at  the  audience, 
and  stood  for  an  instant  alone  on  the  stage. 

Then  suddenly  came  from  the  audience  the  sound! 

It  was  less  full,  less  strong,  less  intense  than  it  had  been  at 
Covent  Garden  on  the  night  of  the  first  performance  of  Le 
Paradis  Terrestre.  But  essentially  it  was  the  same  sound. 

Charmian  heard  it  and  her  lips  grew  pale.  But  she  sat  well 
forward  in  the  box,  and,  though  she  saw  two  opera-glasses 
levelled  at  her,  she  lifted  her  hands  again  and  clapped  till 
Armand  Gillier  passed  out  of  sight. 


CHAPTER  XXXVH 

IN  the  red  sitting-room  at  the  St.  Regis  Hotel  a  supper-table 
was  laid  for  three  people.  It  was  decorated  with  some 
lilies-of-the- valley  and  white  heather,  which  Jacob  Crayford 
had  sent  in  the  afternoon  to  the  "little  lady."  On  a  table  near 
stood  a  gilded  basket  of  tulips,  left  by  Gillier  with  a  formal 
note.  The  elderly  German  waiter,  who  looked  like  a  very 
respectable  butler,  placed  a  menu  beside  the  lilies  and  the 
heather  soon  after  the  clock  struck  twelve.  Then  he  glanced 
at  the  clock,  compared  it  with  his  silver  watch,  and  retired 
to  see  that  the  champagne  was  being  properly  iced.  He 
returned,  with  a  subordinate,  about  half-past  twelve,  and 
began  to  arrange  an  ice  pail,  from  which  the  neck  of  a  bottle 
protruded,  and  other  things  on  a  side  table.  While  he  was 
still  in  the  room  he  heard  voices  in  the  corridor,  and  the  three 
people  for  whom  the  preparations  had  been  made  came  in. 

"Supper  is  ready?    That's  right!"  Charmian  said,  in  a 
high  and  gay  voice. 

She  turned. 

"  Doesn't  the  table  look  pretty,  Alston,  with  Mr.  Crayford's 
white  heather?" 

She  had  Alston's  red  roses  in  her  hand. 

"I  am  going  to  put  your  roses  in  water  now." 

She  turned  again  to  the  waiter. 

"Could  I  have  some  water  put  in  that  vase,  please?    And 
we'll  have  supper  at  once." 

"Certainly,  ma'am!" 

"Come  and  see  the  menu,  both  of  you,  and  tell  me  if  you 
are  satisfied  with  it." 

She  picked  it  up  and  handed  it  to  Alston. 

"And  then  show  it  to  Claude  while  I  take  off  my  cloak." 

She  went  away,  smiling. 

The  waiters  had  gone  out  for  a  moment.     The  two  friends 
were  alone  together. 

458 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        459 

Claude  put  his  arm  round  Alston  Lake's  shoulder. 

^'Alston,  this  has  been  my  first  chance  to  congratulate  you 
without  a  lot  of  people  round  us,  or— really  to  tell  you,  I 
mean,  how  fine  your  performance  was.  There  is  no  doubt 
that  you  are  a  made  man  from  to-night.  I  am  glad  for  you. 
You've  worked  splendidly,  and  you  deserve  this  great  success." 

Alston  wrung  his  friend's  hand. 

"Thank  you,  Claude.  But  I  only  got  my  chance  through 
you  and  Mrs.  Charmian.  If  you  hadn't  composed  a  splendid 
opera,  I  couldn't  have  scored  in  it." 

"You  would  have  scored  in  something  else.  You  are 
going  to." 

"I  shall  never  enjoy  singing  any  r61e  so  much  as  I  have 
enjoyed  singing  your  Spahi." 

"  I  don't  see  how  you  are  ever  going  to  sing  any  role  better," 
said  Claude. 

Their  hands  fell  apart  as  Charmian  quickly  came  in. 

"You've  put  your  coats  in  the  lobby?  That's  right.  Oh, 
here  is  supper!  Caviare  first!  I'll  sit  here.  Oh,  Alston, 
what  a  comfort  to  be  quietly  here  with  just  you  and  Claude 
after  all  the  excitement!" 

For  a  moment  her  mouth  dropped,  but  only  for  a  moment. 

"But  I'm  wonderfully  little  tired!"  she  continued.  "It 
all  went  so  splendidly,  without  a  single  hitch.  Mr.  Crayford 
must  be  enchanted.  I  only  saw  him  for  a  moment  coming 
out  after  I  had  congratulated  Miss  Mardon.  There  were  so 
many  people.  There  was  no  time  to  hear  all  he  thought. 
But  there  could  not  be  two  opinions.  Claudie,  do  you  feel 
quite  finished?" 

"No,"  said  Claude,  in  a  strong  voice,  which  broke  in 
almost  strangely  upon  her  lively  chattering. 

Both  Charmian  and  Alston  looked  at  him  for  an  instant 
with  a  sort  of  inquiry,  which  in  Charmian  was  almost  furtive. 

"That's  good!"  Charmian  began,  after  a  little  pause.  "I 
was  almost  afraid — here's  the  champagne!  We  ought  to 
drink  a  toast  to-night,  I  think.  Suppose  we— 

"We'll  drink  to  Alston's  career,"  interrupted  Claude.  And 
he  lifted  his  glass. 

"Alston!"  said  Charmian,  swiftly  following  his  example. 


460        THE  WA[Y  OF  AMBITION 

"And  now  no  more  toasts  for  the  present.  They  seem  too 
formal  when  only  we  three  are  together.  And  we  know  what 
we  wish  each  other  without  them.  Oyster  soup!  You  see, 
I  remembered  what  you  are  fond  of,  _Claudie.  I  recollect 
ages  ago  in  London  I  once  met  Mr.  Whistler.  It  was  when  I 
was  very  small.  He  came  to  lunch  with  Madre.  By  the 
way,  Claude,  did  you  take  Madre's  cablegram  with  you  when 
you  went  to  answer  your  call?" 

"Yes." 

"I  thought  you  had,  because  I  couldn't  find  it.  Well  Mr. 
Whistler  came  to  lunch  with  us,  Alston.  And  he  talked  about 
nothing  but  oysters." 

"Was  he  painting  them  at  the  time?  A  nocturne  of 
natives?" 

"How  absurd  you  are!  But  he  knew  everything  that 
could  be  known  about  Blue  Points — " 

She  ran  on  vivaciously.  Alston  seconded  her,  when  she 
gave  him  an  opportunity.  Claude  listened,  sometimes  smiled, 
spoke  when  there  seemed  to  be  any  necessity  for  a  word 
from  him.  Alston  was  hungry  after  his  exertions,  and  ate 
heartily.  Charmian  pretended  to  eat  and  sipped  her  cham- 
pagne. On  each  of  her  cheeks  an  almost  livid  spot  of  red 
glowed.  Her  eyes,  which  looked  more  sunken  than  usual 
in  her  head,  were  full  of  intense  life,  as  they  glanced  per- 
petually from  one  man  to  the  other  with  a  ceaseless  watchful- 
ness. She  pressed  Claude  to  eat,  even  helped  him  herself 
from  the  dishes.  The  clock  had  just  struck  a  quarter-past 
one  when  a  buzzing  sound  outside  indicated  the  presence  of 
someone  at  the  door  of  the  lobby. 

Charmian  moved  uneasily. 

"Who  can  it  be  so  late?    Perhaps  it's  Mr.  Crayford." 

She  got  up. 

"I'll  go  and  see  what  it  is,"  said  Claude. 

He  went  out.     Charmian  stood,  watching  the  door. 

"D'you  think  it's  Mr.  Crayford?"  she  asked  of  Alston 
Lake. 

"Hardly!" 

"What  is  it,  Claude?" 

"A  note  or  letter." 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        461 

"A  letter!  Whom  can  it  be  from!  Has  it  only  come 
now?" 

"Apparently." 

" Do  read  it.     But  have  you  finished?" 

"Quite.     I  couldn't  eat  anything  more." 

He  went  to  the  sofa,  behind  which,  on  a  table,  an  electric 
light  was  burning,  sat  down  and  tore  the  envelope  which  he 
held.  Charmian  and  Alston  remained  at  the  supper-table. 
Charmian  had  sat  down  again.  She  gazed  at  Claude,  and  saw 
him  draw  out  of  the  envelope  not  a  note,  but  a  letter.  He 
began  to  read  it,  and  read  it  slowly.  And  as  he  did  so  Char- 
mian saw  his  face  change.  Once  or  twice  his  jaw  quivered. 
His  brows  came  down.  He  turned  sideways  on  the  sofa. 
Very  soon  she  saw  that  he  was  with  difficulty  controlling 
some  strong  emotion.  She  began  to  talk  to  Alston  Lake  and 
turned  her  eyes  away  from  her  husband.  But  presently  she 
heard  the  rustle  of  paper  and  looked  again.  Claude,  with 
a  hand  which  slightly  trembled,  was  putting  the  letter  back 
into  its  envelope.  When  he  had  done  so  he  put  both  into 
the  breast-pocket  of  his  evening  coat,  and  sat  quite  still  gazing 
on  the  ground.  Charmian  went  on  talking,  but  she  did  not 
know  what  she  was  saying,  and  at  last  she  felt  that  she  could 
not  endure  to  sit  any  longer  at  the  disordered  supper- 
table.  Movement  seemed  necessary  to  her  body,  which  felt 
distressed. 

"Do  have  some  more  champagne,  Alston!"  she  said. 

"Not  another  drop,  Mrs.  Charmian,  thank,  you!  I  must 
think  of  my  voice." 

"Well,  then—" 

She  pushed  back  her  chair,  glanced  at  Claude.  He  moved, 
lifted  his  eyes. 

"Dare  you  smoke,  Alston?"  he  said. 

"I've  got  to,  whether  I  dare  or  not.  But"— his  kind  and 
honest  eyes  went  from  Charmian  to  Claude— "I  think,  if  you 
don't  mind,  I'll  smoke  on  the  way  home.  I'll  go  right  away 
now  if  you  won't  think  it  unfriendly.  The  fact  is  I'm  a  bit 
tired,  and  I  bet  you  both  are,  too.  These  things  take  it  out 
of  one,  unless  one  is  made  of  cast-iron  like  Crayford,  or  steel 
like  Mulworth,  or  whipcord  like  Jimber.  You  must  both 


462        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

want  a  good  long  rest  after  all  you've  been  through  over  here 
in  God's  own  country,  eh?" 

He  fetched  his  coat  from  the  lobby.  Claude  got  up  and 
gave  him  a  cigar,  lit  it  for  him. 

"Well,  Mrs.  Charmian— "  he  said. 

He  held  out  his  big  hand.  His  fair  face  flushed  a  little,  and 
his  rather  blunt  features  looked  boyish  and  emotional. 

"We've  brought  it  off.  We've  done  our  best.  Now  we 
can  only  leave  it  to  the  critics  and  the  public." 

He  squeezed  her  hand  so  hard  that  all  the  blood  seemed  to 
leave  it. 

"Good-night!    I'll  come  round  to-morrow.     Good-night." 

He  seemed  reluctant  to  depart,  still  held  her  hand.  But  at 
last  he  just  repeated  "Good-night!"  and  let  it  go. 

"Good-night,  dear  Alston,"  she  murmured. 

Claude  went  with  him  into  the  lobby  and  shut  the  sitting- 
room  door  behind  them.  She  heard  their  voices  talking,  but 
could  not  hear  any  words.  The  voices  continued  for  what 
seemed  to  her  a  long  while.  She  moved  about  the  room,  saw 
Alston's  red  roses  where  she  had  laid  them  down  when  she 
came  in  from  the  theater,  and  the  vase  full  of  water  which  the 
German  waiter  had  brought.  And  she  began  to  put  the  flowers 
in  the  water,  lifting  them  carefully  and  slowly  one  by  one. 
They  had  very  long  stems  and  all  their  leaves.  She  arranged 
them  with  apparent  sensitiveness.  But  she  was  scarcely 
conscious  of  what  she  was  doing.  When  all  the  roses  were  in 
the  vase  she  did  not  know  what  else  to  do.  And  she  stood  still 
listening  to  the  murmur  of  those  voices.  At  last  it  ceased. 
She  heard  a  door  shut.  Then  the  sitting-room  door  opened, 
and  Claude  came  in. 

"What  a  lot  you  had  to  say  to  each — "  she  began. 

She  stopped.     Claude's  face  had  stopped  her. 

"Shall  I  ring  for  the  waiter  to  clear  away?"  she  said  falter- 
ingly,  after  a  moment  of  silence. 

"He  came  when  Alston  and  I  were  in  the  lobby.  I  told 
him  to  leave  it  all  till  to-morrow.  Do  you  mind?" 

"No." 

Claude  shut  the  door.  His  eyes  still  held  the  intensity, 
the  blazing  expression  which  had  stopped  the  words  on  her 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        463 

lips.  Always  Claude's  face  was  expressive.  She  remembered 
how  forcibly  she  had  been  struck  by  that  fact  when  she  walked 
airily  into  Max  Elliot's  music-room.  But  she  had  never  before 
seen  him  look  as  he  was  looking  now.  She  felt  frightened  of 
him,  and  almost  frightened  of  herself. 

"I  had  something  to  say  to  Alston,"  Claude  said,  coming 
up  to  her.  "  I  don't  think  I  could  have  rested  to-night  unless 
I  had  said  it.  I'm  sure  I  couldn't." 

"You  were  telling  him  again  how  splendidly — " 

"No.  He  knew  what  I  thought  of  his  work.  I  told  him 
that  before  supper.  I  had  to  tell  him  something  else — what 
I  thought  of  my  own." 

"What  you — what  you  thought  of  your  own!" 

"  Yes.  What  I  thought  of  my  own  spurious,  contemptible, 
heartless,  soulless,  hateful  work." 

"Claude!"  she  faltered. 

"Don't  you  know  it  is  so?  Don't  you  know  I  am  right? 
You  may  have  deceived  yourself  hi  Algeria.  You  may  have 
deceived  yourself  even  here  at  all  the  rehearsals.  But, 
Charmian" — his  eyes  pierced  her — "do  you  dare  to  tell  me 
that  to-night,  when  you  were  part  of  an  audience,  when  you 
were  linked  with  those  hundreds  and  hundreds  of  listeners, 
do  you  dare  to  tell  me  you  didn't  know  to-night?" 

"How  can  you — oh,  how  can  you  speak  like  this?  Oh, 
how  can  you  attack  your  own  child?"  she  cried,  finding  in 
herself  still  a  remnant  of  will,  a  remnant  of  the  fierceness  that 
belongs  to  deep  feeling  of  any  kind.  "It's  unworthy.  It's 
cruel,  brutal.  I  can't  hear  you  do  it.  I  won't — 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  to-night  when  you  sat  in  the 
theater  you  didn't  know?  Well,  if  you  do  tell  me  so  I  shall 
not  believe  you.  No,  I  shall  not  believe  you." 

She  was  silent,  remembering  her  sense  of  struggle  in  the 
theater,  her  strong  feeling  that  she  was  engaged  on  a  sort  of 
horrible,  futile  fight  against  the  malign  power  of  the  audience. 

"You  see!"  he  said.  "You  dare  not  tell  me  you  didn't 
know!" 

His  eyes  were  always  upon  her.  She  opened  her  lips.  She 
tried  to  speak,  to  say  that  she  loved  the  opera,  that  she  thought 
it  a  work  of  genius,  that  everyone  would  recognize  it  as  such 


464        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

soon,  very  soon,  if  not  now,  immediately.  Words  seemed  to 
be  struggling  up  in  her,  but  she  could  not  speak  them.  She 
felt  that  she  was  growing  paler  and  paler  beneath  his  gaze. 

"Thank  God!"  he  exclaimed,  with^  violence.  "You've 
got  some  sincerity  left  in  you.  We  want  it,  you  and  I,  to- 
night!" 

He  turned  away  from  her,  went  to  the  sofa,  sat  down  on 
it,  put  his  hand  to  the  breast-pocket  of  his  coat,  and  drew  out 
two  papers — Madre's  cablegram  and  the  letter  which  had 
come  while  they  were  at  supper. 

"Come  here,  Charmian!"  he  said,  more  quietly. 

She  came  to  him,  hesitated,  met  his  eyes  again,  and  sat 
down  in  the  other  corner  of  the  sofa  beside  him. 

"I  want  you  to  read  that." 

He  gave  her  the  letter. 

"Read  it  carefully.     Don't  hurry!"  he  said. 

She  took  the  letter  and  read. 

"My  DEAR  MR.  HEATH, — I've  left  the  opera-house  and  have 
come  to  the  office  of  my  paper  to  write  my  article  on  your 
work  which  I  have  just  heard.  But  before  I  do  so  I  feel  moved 
to  send  this  letter  to  you.  I  don't  know  what  you  will  think 
of  it,  or  of  me  for  writing  it,  but  I  do  care.  I  want  you  very 
much  not  to  hate  it,  not  to  think  ill  of  me.  People,  I  believe, 
very  often  speak  and  think  badly  of  us  who  call  ourselves, 
are  called,  critics.  They  say  we  are  venial,  that  we  are  log- 
rollers,  that  we  have  no  convictions,  that  we  don't  know  what 
we  are  talking  about,  that  we  are  the  failures  in  art,  all  that 
kind  of  thing.  We  have  plenty  of  faults,  no  doubt.  But 
there  are  some  of  us  who  try  to  be  honest.  I  try  to  be  honest. 
I  am  going  to  try  to  be  honest  about  your  work  to-night. 
That  is  why  I  am  sending  you  this. 

"Your  opera  is  not  a  success.  I  know  New  York.  I  dare 
even  to  say  that  I  know  America.  I  have  sat  among  American 
audiences  too  long  not  to  be  able  to  'taste'  them.  Their 
feeling  gets  right  into  me.  Your  opera  is  not  a  success.  But 
it  isn't  really  that  which  troubles  me  to-night.  It  is  this. 
Your  opera  doesn't  deserve  to  be  a  success. 

"That's  the  wound! 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        465 

"I  don't  know,  of  course— I  can't  know— whether  you  are 
aware  of  the  wound.  But  I  can't  help  thinking  you  must  be. 
It  is  presumption,  I  dare  say,  for  a  man  like  me,  a  mere  critic, 
who  couldn't  compose  a  bar  of  fine  genuine  music  to  save  his 
life,  to  try  to  dive  into  the  soul  of  an  artist,  into  your  soul. 
But  you  are  a  man  who  means  a  lot  to  me.  If  you  didn't 
I  shouldn't  be  writing  this  letter.  I  believe  you  know  what 
I  know,  what  the  audience  knew  to-night,  that  the  work  you 
gave  them  is  spurious,  unworthy.  It  no  more  represents  you 
than  the  mud  and  the  water  that  cover  a  lode  of  gold  repre- 
sent what  the  miner  is  seeking  for.  I'm  pretty  sure  you  must 
know. 

"Perhaps  you'll  say:  'Then  why  have  the  impertinence  to 
tell  me?' 

"  It's  because  I've  seen  a  little  bit  of  the  gold  shining.  The 
other  night,  after  I  dined  with  you — you  remember?  Gold 
it  was,  that's  certain.  We  Americans  know  something  about 
precious  metal,  or  the  world  belies  us.  After  that  night  I  was 
looking  to  write  a  great  article  on  you.  And  I'll  do  it  yet. 
But  I  can't  do  it  to-night.  That's  my  trouble.  And  it's  a 
heavy  one,  heavier  than  I've  had  this  season.  I've  got  to 
sit  right  down  and  say  out  the  truth.  I  hate  to  do  it.  And 
yet — do  I  altogether?  I  don't  want  to  show  up  as  conceited, 
yet  now,  as  I'm  covering  this  bit  of  paper,  I've  begun  to  think 
to  myself:  Shan't  I,  perhaps,  while  I'm  doing  my  article,  be 
helping  to  clear  away  a  little  of  the  water  and  the  mud  that 
cover  the  lode?  Shan't  I,  perhaps,  be  getting  the  gold  a  bit 
nearer  to  the  light  of  the  day,  and  the  gaze  of  the  world?  Or, 
better  still,  to  the  hand  of  the  miner?  Well,  anyhow,  I've 
got  to  go  ahead.  I  can't  do  anything  else. 

"But  I  remember  the  other  night.  And  if  I  believe  there's 
music  worth  having  in  any  man  of  our  day  I  believe  it's  in 
you. — Your  very  sincere  friend,  and  your  admirer, 

"ALFRED  VAN  BRINEN." 

Charmian  read  this  letter  slowly,  not  missing  a  word.    As 
she  read  she  bent  her  head  lower  and  lower;  she  almost  crouched 
over  the  letter.     When  she  had  finished  it  she  sat  quite  still 
without  raising  her  eyes  for  a  long  time.    The  letter  had  van- 
so 


466        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

ished  from  her  sight.     And  how  much  else  had  vanished! 
In  that  moment  little  or  nothing  seemed  left. 

At   last,   as   she   did   not   move,    Claude   said,    "You've 
finished?" 


"You've  finished  the  letter?" 

"Yes." 

"May  I  have  it,  then?" 

She  knew  he  was  holding  out  his  hand.  She  made  a  great 
effort,  lifted  her  hand,  and  gave  him  Van  Brinen's  letter 
without  looking  at  him.  She  heard  the  thin  paper  rustle  as 
he  folded  it. 

"Charmian,"  he  said,  "I'm  going  to  keep  this  letter.  Do 
you  know  why?  Because  I  love  the  man  who  wrote  it. 
Because  I  know  that  if  ever  I  am  tempted  again,  by  anyone 
or  by  anything,  to  prostitute  such  powers  as  have  been  given 
me,  I  have  only  to  look  at  this  letter,  I  have  only  to  remember 
to-night,  to  be  saved  from  my  own  weakness,  from  my  disease 
of  weakness." 

Still  she  did  not  look  at  him.  But  she  noticed  in  his  voice 
a  sound  of  growing  excitement.  And  now  she  heard  him  get 
up  from  the  sofa. 

"But  I  believe,  in  any  case,  what  has  happened  to-night 
would  have  cured  me.  I've  had  a  tremendous  lesson  to-night. 
We've  both  had  a  tremendous  lesson.  Do  you  know  that 
after  the  call  at  the  end  of  the  third  act  Armand  Gillier  very 
nearly  assaulted  me?" 

"Claude!" 

Now  she  looked  up.  Claude  was  standing  a  little  way  from 
her  by  the  piano.  With  one  hand  he  held  fast  to  the  edge  of 
the  piano,  so  fast  that  the  knuckles  showed  white  through  the 
stretched  skin. 

"  Miss  Mar  don  and  he  realized,  as  of  course  everyone  else 
realized,  my  complete  failure  which  dragged  his  libretto  down. 
The  way  the  audience  applauded  him  when  I  left  the  stage 
told  the  story.  No  other  comment  was  necessary.  But 
Gillier  isn't  a  very  delicate  person,  and  he  made  comments 
before  Miss  Mardon,  Crayford,  and  several  of  the  company, 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        467 

before  scene-shifters  and  stage  carpenters,  too.  What  he  said 
was  true  enough.  But  it  wasn't  pleasant  to  hear  it  in  such 
company." 

He  came  away  from  the  piano,  turned  his  back  on  her  for 
a  moment,  and  walked  toward  the  farther  wall  of  the  room. 

"Oh,  I've  had  my  lesson!"  she  heard  him  say.  "Miss 
Mardon  said  nothing  to  you?" 

He  had  turned. 

"No,"  she  said. 

"Crayford  said  nothing?" 

"Mr.  Crayford  was  surrounded.  He  said,  'It's  gone 
grandly.  We've  all  made  good.  I  don't  care  a  snap  what 
the  critics  say  to-morrow.'  " 

"And  you  knew  he  was  telling  you  a  lie!" 

She  was  silent. 

"You  knew  the  truth,  which  is  this:  everyone  made  good 
except  myself.  And  everyone  will  be  dragged  down  in  the 
failure  because  of  me.  They've  all  built  on  a  rotten  founda- 
tion. They've  all  built  on  me.  And  you — you've  built  on 
me.  But  not  one  of  you,  not  one,  has  built  on  what  I  really 
am,  on  the  real  me.  Not  one  of  you  has  allowed  me  to  be 
myself,  and  you  least  of  all!" 

"Claude!" 

"You  least  of  all!  Don't  you  know  it?  Haven't  you 
always  knowrn  it,  from  the  moment  when  you  resolved  to 
take  me  in  hand,  when  you  resolved  to  guide  me  in  my  art 
life,  to  bring  the  poor  weak  fellow,  who  had  some  talent,  but 
who  didn't  know  how  to  apply  it,  into  the  light  of  success! 
You  meant  to  make  me  from  the  first,  and  that  meant  unmak- 
ing the  man  you  had  married,  the  man  who  had  lived  apart 
in  the  odd,  little  unfashionable  Bayswater  house,  who  had 
lived  the  odd,  little  unfashionable  life,  composing  Te  Deums 
and  Bible  rubbish,  the  man  whom  nobody  knew,  and  who 
didn't  specially  want  to  know  anyone,  except  his  friends. 
You  thought  I  was  an  eccentricity — " 

"No,  no!"  she  almost  faltered,  bending  under  the  storm 
of  unreserve  which  had  broken  in  this  reserved  man. 

"An  eccentricity,  when  I  was  just  being  simply  myself, 
doing  what  I  was  meant  to  do,  what  I  could  do,  drawing  my 


468        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

inspiration  not  from  the  fashions  of  the  moment  but  from  the 
subjects,  the  words,  the  thoughts,  which  found  their  way 
into  my  soul.  I  didn't  care  whether  they  had  found  their 
way  into  other  people's  souls.  Whatxlid  that  matter  to  me? 
Other  people  were  not  my  concern.  I  didn't  think  about 
them.  I  didn't  care  what  they  cared  for,  only  what  I  cared 
for.  I  was  myself,  just  that.  And  from  to-night  I'm  going 
to  be  just  that,  just  simply  myself  again.  It's  the  only  chance 
for  an  artist."  He  paused,  fixing  his  eyes  upon  her  till  she 
was  forced  to  lift  her  eyes  to  his.  "And  I  believe — I  believe 
in  my  soul  it's  the  only  chance  for  a  man." 

He  stood  looking  into  her  eyes.    Then  he  repeated : 

"The  only  chance  for  a  man." 

He  went  back  slowly  to  the  piano,  grasped  it,  held  it  once 
more. 

"Charmian,"  he  said,  "you've  done  your  best.  You've 
drawn  me  into  the  world,  into  the  great  current  of  life;  you've 
played  upon  the  surface  ambition  that  I  suppose  there  is  in 
almost  every  man;  you've  given  me  a  host  of  acquaintances; 
you've  turned  me  from  the  one  or  two  things  that  I  fancied 
I  might  make  something  of  since  we  married,  The  Hound  oj 
Heaven,  the  violin  concerto.  On  the  other  side  of  the  account 
you  found  me  that  song,  and  Lake  to  sing  it.  And  you  got  me 
Gillier's  libretto  and  opened  the  doors  of  Crayford's  opera- 
house  to  me.  You've  devoted  yourself  to  me.  I  know  that. 
You've  given  up  the  life  you  loved  in  London,  your  friends, 
your  parties,  and  consecrated  yourself  to  the  life  of  the  opera. 
You've  done  your  best.  You've  stuck  to  it.  You've  done  all 
that  you,  or  any  other  woman  with  your  views  and  desires, 
could  do  for  me  in  art.  You've  unmade  me.  I've  been  weak 
and  contemptible  enough  to  let  you  unmake  me.  From 
to-night  I've  got  to  build  on  ruins.  Perhaps  you'll  say  that's 
impossible.  It  isn't.  I  mean  to  do  it.  I'm  going  to  do  it. 
But  I've  got  to  build  in  freedom." 

His  eyes  shone  as  he  said  the  last  words.  They  were 
suddenly  the  eyes  not  of  a  man  crushed  but  of  a  man  released. 

She  felt  a  pang  of  deadly  cold  at  her  heart. 

"In — freedom?"  she  almost  whispered. 

She  had  believed  that  the  failure  of  all  her  hopes,  the 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        469 

failure  before  the  world  of  which  she  no  longer  dared  to 
cherish  any  lingering  doubt,  had  completely  overwhelmed  her. 

In  this  moment  she  knew  it  had  not  been  so,  for  abruptly 
she  saw  a  void  opening  in  her  life,  under  her  feet,  as  it  were. 
And  she  knew  that  till  this  moment  even  in  the  midst  of  ruin 
she  had  been  standing  on  firm  ground. 

"In  freedom!"  she  said  again.  "What— what  do  you 
mean?" 

He  was  silent.  A  change  had  come  into  his  face,  a  faint 
and  dawning  look  of  surprise. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  repeated. 

And  now  there  was  a  sharp  edge  to  her  voice. 

"That  I  must  take  back  the  complete  artistic  freedom 
which  I  have  never  had  since  we  married,  that  I  must  have  it 
as  I  had  it  before  I  ever  saw  you." 

She  got  slowly  up  from  the  sofa. 

"Is  that — all  you  mean?"  she  said. 

"All!    Isn't  it  enough?" 

"But  is  it  all?    I  want  to  know — I  must  know!" 

The  look  in  her  face  startled  him.  Never  before  had  he 
seen  her  look  like  that.  Never  had  he  dreamed  that  she 
could  look  like  that.  It  was  as  if  womanhood  surged  up  in 
her.  Her  face  was  distorted,  was  almost  ugly.  The  features 
seemed  suddenly  sharpened,  almost  horribly  salient.  But  her 
eyes  held  an  expression  of  anxiety,  of  hunger,  of  something 
else  that  went  to  his  heart.  He  dropped  his  hand  from  the 
piano  and  moved  nearer  to  her. 

"Is  that  all  you  meant  by  freedom?" 

"Yes." 

She  sighed  and  went  forward  against  him. 

"Did  you  think — do  you  care?"  he  stammered. 

All  the  dominating  force  had  suddenly  departed  from  him. 
But  he  put  his  arms  around  her. 

"Do  you  care  for  the  man  who  has  failed?" 

"Yes,  yes!" 

She  put  her  arms  slowly,  almost  feebly,  round  his  neck. 

"Yes,  yes,  yes!" 

She  kept  on  repeating  the  word,  breathing  it  against  his 
cheek,  breathing  it  against  his  lips,  till  his  lips  stifled  it  on  hers. 


470        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

At  last  she  took  her  lips  away.  Their  eyes  almost  touched 
as  she  gazed  into  his,  and  said: 

"It  was  always  the  man.  Perhaps.  I  didn't  know  it,  but 
it  was — the  man,  not  the  triumph." 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

AND  you  really  mean  to  give  up  Kensington  Square 
and  the  studio,  and  to  take  Djenan-el-Maqui  for  five 
years?"  said  Mrs.  Mansfield  to  Charmian  on  a  spring 
evening,  as  they  sat  together  in  the  former's  little  library  on 
the  first  floor  of  the  house  in  Berkeley  Square. 

"Yes,  my  only  mother,  if — there's  always  an  'if'  in  our 
poor  lives,  isn't  there?" 

"If?"  said  her  mother  gently. 

"  If  you  will  occasionally  brave  the  Gulf  of  Lyons  and  come 
to  us  in  the  winter.  In  the  summer  we  shall  generally  come 
back  to  you." 

Mrs.  Mansfield  looked  into  the  fire  for  a  moment.  Caroline 
lay  before  it  in  mild  contentment,  unchanged,  unaffected  by 
the  results  of  America.  Enough  for  her  if  a  pleasant  warmth 
from  the  burning  logs  played  agreeably  about  her  lemon- 
colored  body,  enough  for  her  if  the  meal  of  dog  biscuit  soaked 
in  milk  was  set  before  her  at  the  appointed  time.  She  sighed 
now,  but  not  because  she  heard  discussion  of  Djenan-el- 
Maqui.  Her  delicate  noise  was  elicited  by  the  point  of  her 
mistress's  shoe,  which  at  this  moment  pressed  her  side  softly, 
moving  her  loose  skin  to  and  fro. 

"The  Gulf  of  Lyons  couldn't  keep  me  from  coming,"  Mrs. 
Mansfield  said  at  last.  "Yes,  I  daresay  I  shall  see  you  in 
that  Arab  house,  Charmian.  Claude  wishes  to  go  there 
again?" 

"It  is  Claude  who  has  decided  the  whole  thing." 

Charmian's  voice  held  a  new  sound.  Mrs.  Mansfield  looked 
closely  at  her  daughter. 

"You  see,  Madre,  he  and  I— well,  I  think  we  have  earned 
our  retreat.  We — we  did  stand  up  to  the  failure.  We  went 
to  the  first  night  of  Jacques  Sennier's  new  opera  and  helped, 
as  everyone  in  an  audience  can  help,  to  seal  its  triumph.  I—I 
went  round  to  Madame  Sennier's  box  with  Claude— Adelaide 

471 


472        THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION 

Shiffney  and  Armand  Gillier  were  in  it! — and  congratulated 
her.     Madre,  we  faced  the  music." 

Her  voice  quivered  slightly.  Mrs.  Mansfield  impulsively 
took  her  child's  hands  and  held  them.  ~- 

"We  faced  the  music.  Claude  is  strong.  I  never  knew 
what  he  was  before.  Without  that  tremendous  failure  I 
never  should  have  known  him.  He  helped  me.  I  didn't 
know  one  human  being  could  help  another  as  Claude  helped 
me  after  the  failure  of  the  opera.  Even  Mr.  Crayford  admired 
him.  He  said  to  me  the  last  day,  when  we  were  going  to 
start  for  the  ship:  'Well,  little  lady,  you've  married  the 
biggest  failure  we've  brought  over  here  in  my  time,  but  you 
have  married  a  man!'  And  I  said — I  said — " 

"Yes,  my  only  child?" 

"  'I  believe  that's  all  a  woman  wants.' " 

"Is  it?" 

Mrs.  Mansfield's  dark,  intense  eyes  searched  Charmian's. 

"Is  it  all  that  you  want?" 

"You  mean—?" 

"Isn't  the  fear  of  the  crowd  still  haunting  you?  Isn't 
uneasy  ambition  still  tugging  at  you?" 

Charmian  took  her  foot  away  from  Caroline's  side  and  sat 
very  still  for  a  moment. 

"I  do  want  Claude  to  succeed,  yes,  I  do,  Madre.  I  believe 
every  woman  wants  her  man  to  succeed.  But  I  shall  never 
interfere  again — never.  I've  had  my  lesson.  I've  seen  the 
truth,  both  of  myself  and  of  Claude.  But  I  shall  always  wish 
Claude  to  succeed,  not  in  my  way,  but  in  his  own.  And  I 
think  he  will.  Yes,  I  believe  he  will.  Weren't  we — he  and 
I — both  extremists?  I  think  perhaps  we  were.  I  may  have 
been  vulgar — oh,  that  word! — in  my  desire  for  fame,  in  my 
wish  to  get  out  of  the  crowd.  But  wasn't  Claude  just  a  little 
bit  morbid  in  his  fear  of  life,  in  his  shrinking  from  publicity? 
I  think,  perhaps,  he  was.  And  I  know  now  he  thinks  so. 
Claude  is  changed,  Madre.  All  he  went  through  in  New  York 
has  changed  him.  He's  a  much  bigger  man  than  he  was  when 
we  left  England.  You  must  see  that!" 

"I  do  see  it." 

"From  now  onward  he'll  do  the  work  he  is  fitted  to  do, 


THE  WAY  OF  AMBITION        473 

only  that.    But  I  think  he  means  to  let  people  hear  it     He 
said  to  me  only  last  night:  'Now  they  all  know  the  false  man 
I  have  the  wish  to  show  them  the  man  who  is  real.'  " 

"The  man  who  had  the  crucifix  standing  before  his  piano  " 
said  Mrs.  Mansfield,  in  a  low  voice.  "The  man  who  heard'a 
great  voice  out  of  the  temple  speaking  to  the  seven  angels." 

She  paused. 

^'Did  he  ever  play  you  that?"  she  asked  Charmian. 

"One  night  in  America,  when  our  dear  friend,  Alfred  Van 
Brinen,  was  with  us.  But  he  played  it  for  Mr.  Van  Brinen  " 

"And— since  then?" 

"Madre,  he  has  played  it  since  then  for  me." 

Charmian  got  up  from  her  chair.  She  stood  by  the  fire. 
Her  thin  body  showed  in  clear  outline  against  the  flames,  but 
her  face  wras  a  little  in  shadow. 

"Madretta,"  she  began,  and  was  silent. 

"Yes?"  said  Mrs.  Mansfield. 

"Susan  Fleet  and  I  were  once  talking  about  theosophy. 
And  Susan  said  a  thing  I  have  never  forgotten." 

"What  was  that?" 

"She  said:  'It's  a  long  journey  up  the  Ray.'  I  didn't 
understand.  And  she  explained  that  by  the  Ray  she  meant 
the  bridge  that  leads  from  the  personal  which  perishes  to 
the  immortal  which  endures.  Madre,  I  shall  always  be  very 
personal,  I  think.  I  can't  help  it.  I  don't  know  that  I  even 
want  to  help  it.  But — but  I  do  believe  that  in  America,  that 
night  after  the  opera,  I  took  a  long,  long  step  on  the  journey 
up  the  Ray.  I  must  have,  I  think,  because  that  night  I  was 
happy." 

Her  eyes  became  almost  mysterious  in  the  firelight.  She 
looked  down  and  added,  in  a  withdrawn  voice: 

"7  was  happy  in  failure!" 

"No,  in  success!"  said  Mrs.  Mansfield. 


THE  END 


